


Our Version of Events

by geneeste, MachaSWicket



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Tropes, pop star x action star au, pr relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2018-08-14 19:02:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 61,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8025382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geneeste/pseuds/geneeste, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: SUMMARY:  Action star Ollie Queen is trying to clean up his image and land parts that require him to do more than appear shirtless while fighting stuntmen. Pop star Felicity Smoak wants to be seen as an adult in time for the release of her new, grittier album. And talent manager John Diggle’s got an idea about what coverage of Oliver and Felicity’s brand new (and totally fake) romance could do for them both.





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

 

 

“Your hair’s pink.”

Diggle’s flat observation is really not the kind of enthusiastic greeting Felicity is used to from her agent. But there John Diggle stands, head tilted skeptically, eyes narrowed, giant shoulders very effectively blocking the doorway to his house.

Felicity’s exaggerated _ta-da_  pose collapses, her arms dropping down to her sides, and she glares at Diggle. “Really? That’s what you’re going with?” She’s more than a little disappointed by his subdued reaction, because, for starters, her hair’s not _pink_ , it’s _lavender_ , and also, she just dyed it yesterday, and she _l_ _oves_  it.

Seriously, she spent like three hours this morning playing around with different hairstyles in her bathroom mirror, settling finally for long, chunky waves to really show off the color. It’s different and fun and a definite change from her familiar long blonde locks.

Dig crosses his arms and quirks one expressive eyebrow. “ _Why_  is your hair pink?”

“Lavender,” she corrects, not bothering to hide her disgruntlement. “And you,” Felicity tells him with a sharp poke of his forearm, “are no fun.”

She edges past him and into the modest but well-appointed home that he and his wife Lyla share on the outskirts of downtown Starling. Felicity has a penthouse downtown, decorated to her exacting standards -- which mostly means bright colors on the walls, snuggly furniture for catching up on all her shows when she’s not on tour, and every possible electronic or computer-related item on the market. She loves her place a lot, but she never feels more at home than when she spends time at the Diggle-Michaels residence.

“Is Lyla here?” Felicity wonders, glancing around as she heads for the living room. There’s an oversized, overstuffed couch with her name on it. And the throw pillows -- somehow, Dig and Lyla have the  _squishiest_ , most huggable throw pillows in the world.

“For our very important meeting about the direction for your next album?” Dig answers drolly. He detours to the breakfast bar to grab two glasses. “No, I didn’t invite my wife.”

Felicity scoffs. “You say that like she’s not _also_  a talent agent.” Legend has it the two met during some sort of epic battle over who would represent _the next Brad Pitt_ ; Lyla won, Diggle was hopelessly smitten, and the next Brad Pitt turned into the next, like, Ian Somerhalder.

“She’s not _your_  agent,” Dig shoots back. “And she focuses on actors, not musicians.”

“Still.” Dropping into the overstuffed leather couch, Felicity lets out a happy sigh and wriggles deeper into its embrace. “One day I’m going to leave you for your wife.”

Diggle shakes his head at her even while handing her a glass of ginger beer. “One day your brain will stop phrasing things quite so suggestively,” he shoots back, amusement ringing in his voice as he settles into his customary armchair. He takes a sip of his drink before setting it on the table beside him.

“Hey,” Felicity defends, “that’s actually a _plus_  when it comes to songwriting.”

“And a PR nightmare when it comes to interviews,” he points out, with a kind smile to take the sting out of his words.

He’s not wrong -- her long-standing reputation as a bright, bubbly pop star leaves most interviewers unsure of just what to do with innuendo-laden answers to questions. The better reporters will present Felicity Smoak, accomplished songwriter and award-winning singer, as a complicated woman with contradictory traits; the hacks treat her like a naif, like an inexperienced girl who can’t possibly have _meant_  to allude to oral sex in her comments about her favorite pastimes.

The stubborn persistence of this _childish_  image grates on Felicity’s nerves more and more each year. The problem is that her debut album hit the Billboard charts when she was just 17 years old. She’s been writing and performing high energy pop songs for nearly eight years, but her most popular songs are still the early ones about dreamy crushes and that fluttery feeling you get when you meet your first love.

Her image is immature because her best known songs are about immature things.

She’s not that same young girl anymore, the one who sings about cute boys and first dates. She barely remembers that girl. But there are two albums left on her contract with the label, and they are expecting a particular sound, a dance club vibe. As much as she appreciates all the success she’s enjoyed, she’s been feeling stifled musically.

It’s hard to write bubblegum pop about your first love getting coked up and driving his Lamborghini into a telephone pole. It’s hard to write dance songs about grief and inescapable guilt.

The songs she’s writing now -- they’re a revelation to her. They’re deeper and more layered, but also much more raw. It’s not what anyone would expect from her; it’s not what _she_  would’ve expected to be writing about a year ago, but life hits you when you’re not expecting it. Things change, and you either change with them, or you drown.

Songwriting used to be an expression of joy; now, for Felicity, it’s a form of therapy, of working through her anger and grief, of trying to understand the tough stuff like love and sex and death.

There’s one new song she’s particularly proud of -- it’s a lamentation of a song with a heavy, driving bassline and slow sad lyrics. After nearly a week of tweaking and re-recording versions of it in the small studio in her penthouse, she’d sent Dig the demo last night.

Shifting on the couch to pull her legs up beneath her, Felicity fixes Dig with an apprehensive gaze. “Did you listen to it?”

The new song is good, _really_  good, and she knows it. But Dig’s only response had been a text asking her to stop by at 4 today to discuss the new sound. Felicity has been on tenterhooks ever since, both dreading and anticipating his response. Because Diggle is a musician himself, a saxophonist, and the most important judge of her music, in her opinion. He’s always pushed her to spread her wings, to take risks musically.

She’d _hoped_  that he would like the new song; his pensive look gives nothing away.

Then his expression melts into a genuine smile. “It’s really good, Felicity,” he tells her. “Great bassline, and the chord progression on the bridge?” He shakes his head. “Otherworldly.”

Felicity’s breath leaves her in a woosh, then she straightens up a bit, clasping her hands together, almost pleading with him to be telling her the truth. “You mean it?” John Diggle is a straight shooter, she _knows_  this. But the music business is overflowing with sycophants and starfuckers; Felicity has been burned more than once by insincerity.

“Yeah, in fact,” Dig continues, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, watching her intently, “I sent it along to Nyssa al Ghul -- you know, the director of that thing about the women in Tripoli that won Sundance last year?”

Felicity nods, puzzled and impressed in equal measure. “Yeah, of course.”

“She’s looking for original tracks to put on her new movie -- something about immigrant families fighting to make a life in decaying American cities,” Dig explains. “She responded really well, wants to talk to us about it in more detail.”

Felicity just stares at him, wide-eyed. She’d expected -- pushback, criticism, at least some kind of reminder that the label has marketed her as a dance-able, cheerful ball of sunshine. She’d braced herself for rejection, but instead, Dig seems warmly supportive.

A rush of happiness hits her, and she feels lighter than she has in _months_  and months. “You’re the best!” She launches herself off the couch and tackles Dig with a hug, nearly spilling ginger beer down his back in the process. “Oops!” she yelps, straightening and placing her glass carefully on the coffee table.

Diggle huffs a laugh, patting her shoulder. “I’ve always believed in you, Felicity, you know that.”

Grinning, Felicity settles back on the couch, tugging a bright aqua pillow over to rest in her lap. He’s certainly right about that; from the moment they met, she and Dig have had a remarkably close relationship. Instead of an agent, Felicity feels like she found her long lost brother when she met John Diggle. She knows he’ll back _her_ , but she doesn’t want to assume he’ll back her artistic decisions when it means changing a lot of the things that made her successful in the first place.

“I do know that,” she answers slowly, “but this is a _lot_  different.”

Dig reaches out and tugs on her lavender locks. “So’s this,” he points out. “The song’s _good_ , Felicity. Maybe the best thing you’ve ever written. There’s more like that?”

She nods. “Not an album’s worth yet, but five maybe six solid songs so far.”

“If this is the direction you want to go in, I’ll help you in any way I can.”

“Are you sure?” Dig’s been in her corner, 100%, for the past eight years. But she’s also by far his most successful client, which makes her the source of most of his income. If she takes a hard left in her songwriting and it goes badly, it’ll affect his career, too. It’ll affect his _life_  -- his and Lyla’s. “I’m pretty sure the label wants more happy, bouncy, dance-y stuff.”

Diggle settles back into his armchair, regarding her with an expression she doesn’t quite recognize. “The label wants money. They don’t particularly care what genre an album is if it goes platinum.”

Felicity considers his point. It’s true, as far as it goes, but-- “Isn’t it easier to just update the release dates and song titles in their exhaustive PR file on me, instead of starting from scratch and coming up with a new strategy to sell me and my music to different radio stations?”

“Probably,” Dig admits. “But that just means we need to lay the groundwork for them.”

“Oh!” She perks up, twisting her brightly colored hair around one finger. “Like start getting seen with my new, edgier look?” she teases. Then she relents, pursing her lips as she thinks it through. “I don’t have any appearances booked,” she muses. “Plus, I think I need to stop wearing pink; it'll clash with my hair.” Dig presses his lips together, but doesn’t comment. And Felicity mock glowers. “You’ve always hated the pink.”

“Not true,” he protests. “I just questioned how _much_  pink was too much. Those first couple years...” He shakes his head.

“I was seventeen,” she grumbles. “I needed a _thing_.”

Dig eyes her outfit, and Felicity self-consciously smoothes down the indigo jersey dress she’s wearing. It’s not pink, but it is _bright_ , which has also kind of been her thing. “Call Sara,” Dig suggests. “Work on something that’s more of a change from the cover of _Serenade_.”

Felicity wrinkles her nose at him -- the cover art for her first album is picture of a beaming, fresh-faced, teenaged Felicity dressed in a flounce-y bright purple dress and adorable panda-face ballet flats, her long blonde hair falling in a straight cascade halfway down her back. Her general image ever since has been bright colors, lots of long blonde hair, and bright pink lipstick -- _always_  pink lipstick.

She decides then and there to keep the trademark lipstick shade -- which is, at this point, a branded color “Smoakscreen” from Urban Decay -- and ditch the rest. Darker colors, more revealing shapes, chunky jewelry. Maybe the new hair color isn’t enough of a transformation; maybe a choppy bob? The idea is strangely freeing, and she barely resists the urge to text her hair stylist to set it up.

She grins at Diggle. “I am _totally_  getting that bar piercing, dammit!”

With a tiny headshake, Dig says, “Fine.” He falls silent, watching her with an odd look on his face. She knows Diggle pretty well, and she’s really pretty sure she has never seen that strange mix of trepidation and amusement on his face before.

Felicity frowns. “What?” He doesn’t reply, clearing his throat and shifting in his chair instead. His apparent nervousness is starting to make _her_  nervous. “Dig, _what_?”

“There are other options we should consider,” he begins slowly, “with respect to your image.”

Felicity tilts her head, running through the possibilities. Without a new album to promote at the moment, there’s not much incentive for the magazines or the entertainment press to really _cover_  her. Absent a scandal, of course, but Felicity isn’t terribly scandalous, even on her worst days. “I don’t want to play the paparazzi game, John,” she warns. They’ve had this argument before; even though she knows Dig finds the idea of staged “out and about” shots nearly as distasteful as she does, he understands they occasionally provide value.

“No, no,” Dig protests. “That’s not what I’m suggesting.” But then he pauses again, studying her.

“Would you stop doing that?” Felicity demands, curling an arm around her knees and tucking herself into a ball. Whatever Diggle is working himself up to, it’s clearly not good. She doesn’t like the weird tension in the air. “Just spit it out.”

“Promise me you’ll hear me out.” He lifts his eyebrows in question, refusing to continue until she agrees.

Felicity and Diggle are both stubborn people, and they’ve had some epic battles of will. On most days, she would sit calmly and drink her ginger beer, refusing to agree to his ridiculous ground rules, holding in the inevitable torrent of words until he cracked. But Felicity is strangely nervous in this moment, anxious to hear what he’s going to say, so she jerks a twitchy little nod. “Yeah, fine.”

“Okay.” Diggle holds her gaze and his voice is calm when he says, “The easiest and simplest way to get sufficient press coverage to debut this new look and start to mature your image is if,” he pauses minutely, “you were in a new relationship.”

The suggestion hits Felicity like a bowling ball, heavy and unstoppable and flattening everything in its path; her entire body goes cold and numb in its wake.

Even if she wanted to get up and storm out, she can’t seem to make her muscles move. “What?” she breathes, her thoughts caught up in a whirl of grief, remembering that last awful fight with Cooper, him storming out in a rage, and then getting the worst phone call of her life. The rest comes back to her in flashes -- his mother, angry and tearful and blaming Felicity; the yelled questions from the press outside of his funeral; his familiar face smiling at her from a black frame atop his coffin.

Diggle’s hand lands on her knee, squeezing gently, and her gaze snaps up to his. “Felicity, I know you’re not... _ready_  for something real, and that’s fine.”

She’s shaking her head almost violently, wanting this entire conversation to just _stop_. “No.” She can’t summon the words to explain herself, to tell him she needs a break from this, at least a brief time out. His suggestion is closing in on her, pressing her into the couch. She hugs the pillow to her chest like it’s armor.

“You said you’d hear me out,” Dig reminds her. Gently. But he’s holding her to her promise. “I’m not suggesting you date anyone for real, just that the press will cover your new relationship with a month of breathless stories. And if your new, more mature, edgier look meshes well with your new adult relationship, well...” He trails off, letting her draw her own conclusions.

“This is insane,” she says, finally finding her voice. Her _loud_  voice, in fact. Because she is suddenly very, very angry. “You’re suggesting a fake relationship -- a PR trick, where I pretend to date some old man so--”

“Not an _old man_ ,” he protests.

She talks louder. “So that the press will understand that I’m not a virginal teenager anymore?”

Diggle stares back at her, unfazed by her outburst. “Yes.”

“That’s _crazy_.”

“Do you have any idea how many PR relationships there have been in the last ten years?” Dig asks. “A _lot_. It’s not the most honest tactic, but it works.”

“Yeah, I’m sure Katie Holmes would line up to argue in favor of where PR relationships can take you,” Felicity mutters. “Oh! Or Hiddleswift! Which, by the way, is a _terrible_  portmanteau. Not that there are good portmanteaus. The whole idea of two individuals merging into a single indistinguishable identity is super creepy."

“Felicity.” Dig leans closer, ignoring her tangent the way he’s done a million times before. The intent and serious expression on his face freezes her in place. “Think about the volume of coverage you’d get for some simple appearances -- a couple red carpets, a couple public dinner dates, maybe a few selfies on your Instagram. Then in a few months, with your touring schedule and his obligations filming his next movie, the distance between you is too much to overcome and you split amicably.”

When he puts it like that, it doesn’t sound _quite_  as appalling. In fact, it sounds almost distressingly easy. It’s also dishonest, and something about that bothers her.

Diggle knows her well enough to sense that she’s her weakening. “I know you don’t like the idea of a fake relationship,” he tells her. “So maybe try to think of it more like an extended PR campaign. New look, new man, new sound. If we choose the right man, this can do more for your transition to a deeper, more adult sound than we’ll be able to do on our own.”

Felicity frowns. “How do you figure?”

“You date someone with an unsavory past, someone who’s been to dark places -- _publicly_  -- but who’s come out the other side. The public will understand you must have dark places, too, if he’s in love with you.”

She recoils at the word _love_ , because it still stings. Then she closes her eyes, pushing down her hurt and her grief and her guilt to give Diggle’s admittedly _nuts_  but oddly compelling idea a fair shot. Would it really be so bad to fake-date some cute, angsty, C-list actor? Her eyes snap open and she fixes Dig with an inquisitive stare. “Who’s the guy?” she demands.

Diggle leans back, crossing his arms over his chest, and Felicity _knows_  she’s going to hate this before he even opens his mouth. “Oliver Queen.”

Felicity gapes at him. “What?” The word comes out as more of a squeak.

“Oliver Queen.”

“Oliver Queen,” she repeats dubiously. “ _Ollie_  Queen.”

“Felicity--”

“Ollie _I sleep with anything that wanders across my path_  Queen?” she demands, warming to her topic. “You want me to pretend to be in love with Ollie _I peed on a cop car after getting thrown out of the scuzziest, sleaziest club in Vegas_  -- and that is saying something, because Vegas is _full_  of sleazy clubs -- Queen?” She glares harder. “ _That_  guy?”

“Yes, but, Felicity, he’s _not_  that guy anymore.”

She snorts. “Right.”

“He’s not,” Dig protests, and he actually sounds serious, like he believes what he’s saying. “This past year he’s grown up a lot, straightened himself out.”

Felicity studies Diggle. “And you know this how?”

Diggle shifts uncomfortably. “Lyla took him on as a client about six months ago.”

“Oh, my God.” Felicity flops back, slumping into the couch in relief. She can’t fault the man for trying to make his wife happy by throwing her new reprobate of a client out there as an option, even if he _knows_  there’s no way Felicity would agree. “Thank God. I thought you were serious.”

“What do you mean?” Dig asks.

“About Oliver Queen,” Felicity says. She reaches over and pats his knee. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell Lyla you tried. I’m _more_  than happy to be the bad guy in this particular scenario, because _Oliver Queen_...” She trails off, shaking her head. “Yikes.”

But Diggle just looks confused. “Felicity, I _am_ serious -- about the idea in general, and about Oliver Queen in particular.”

“Nope!” Felicity flings an arm over her face, inching down on the couch and hugging the pillow to her chest. “I’m done with this conversation.”

“Oliver Queen is -- and I hate the pun as much as you do -- Hollywood royalty. He clears $20 million a picture. He’s been in three separate successful movie franchises, starring in two of them, and more importantly for this discussion, he has fucked up enough to be a tabloid staple. Even now that he’s living a boring life, _US Weekly_ , _People_ , and TMZ cover his trips to the grocery store or to see his sister with breathless fascination,” Dig rattles off. “He dropped Rochev & Associates because he’s taking his career in a different direction. He wants a more professional image, and meatier roles. He wants the type of appeal that being linked with _you_  can give him.”

Felicity taps her foot in agitation, determined to keep ignoring Diggle’s rationale, which is frustratingly logical. Oliver is a tabloid magnet, and while she’s sure a lot of it is them wanting to chronicle his latest fuckups (or his latest hookups, because: _so_ many hookups), she can’t deny the man takes a good picture. If she were an editor, she’d run photos of him buying groceries, too -- he looks ridiculously good just _existing_  out in the world.

Still, he’s a jerk and she wants nothing to do with him.

“Oliver,” Dig continues, untroubled by her silence, “is five years older than you, and an established star. He’s _exactly_  what you need for this.” Dig pauses for a moment, and Felicity recognizes that he’s getting to the crux of his argument. “And he’s the only guy of that caliber I can think of who needs an image shift at the moment. If you and Oliver are dating, the press covers him as the reformed party boy who’s matured enough to win over the pop princess. And they cover you as grown up, and more experienced.” He grimaces before adding, “And woman enough to attract a bad boy.”

Felicity huffs.

“I hate the shitty stereotypes, too, Felicity,” Diggle says kindly. “But the tabloids know what sells, and _good girl tames bad boy_  is a storyline that always sells; that fairy tale nonsense _plus_  America’s pop princess and the action heartthrob? It sells itself, Felicity.”

Unable to keep silent any longer, Felicity sits back up and glares at him. “Heartthrob? Oliver Queen is a lecherous jerk! I met him at the Vanity Fair party a couple years ago. He spent ten minutes staring at my ass, asked me if I wrote that song about threesomes, and then called me sweetcheeks.” Diggle winces, and Felicity pushes her advantage. “Sweetcheeks, John!”

“He’s not that guy anymore,” Dig argues. “You can’t possibly think I’d suggest him if he were.”

It’s an annoyingly persuasive argument. Felicity knows Diggle would never do anything to jeopardize her career _or_ put her in an uncomfortable situation. Which means he _must_  think there’s some merit to this idea if he’s pushing it this hard. She tries to take her emotions out of it -- her self-protective reticence that relates back to Cooper, and her general dislike of guys like Ollie Queen -- and consider the suggestion dispassionately.

But Felicity is not a dispassionate person. She throws her hands in the air. “Dig! This is _crazy_.”

“Lyla and I discussed this idea at length last night,” Dig tells her. “It’s not something I’d suggest lightly. You _know_  Oliver Queen’s not someone I’d recommend without getting Lyla’s take on it. She thinks he’d do it, because he needs to burnish his image, too, and she swears that she’s seen no sign of the drunken jackass version of him.” Dig sighs, “I know you’d prefer a dozen guys instead of Oliver Queen, but this kind of arrangement only works if you _both_  get something out of it.”

Felicity thinks about her new song, she thinks about getting it on the new Nyssa al Ghul movie soundtrack, and maybe hitting _The_ _Late Show_ to perform it. She considers how easy it would be to debut a new look on a red carpet with a handsome movie star on her arm -- maximum exposure, plus at least a few days of thinkpieces on fashion and music blogs about _what Felicity Smoak is trying to say with her short pink locks_  Because, yeah, she’s totally chopping eight inches off of her hair tomorrow.

Diggle’s reaction to her new song, the success she’s had writing lately, the satisfaction she feels with her new hair -- it feels like everything is already in motion. It feels like she’s _finally_ moving past the depressing stagnation of grief and regret, like she just needs to lean into the momentum to break free of the last ten months.

But as tough as she tries to be, as brave as she tells herself she is, Felicity is still bruised. A small, scared, broken-hearted part of her thinks fake dating a near-stranger is so much more manageable than _actually_  getting back out there and opening her heart to anyone.

Is her damaged state enough to justify this insanity?

Is it selfish, using a stranger to make herself look older and more mature? If he’s using her right back, does that make it okay?

She understands how a new “relationship” with someone like Oliver Queen would, as Dig suggested, accelerate all the things she’s trying to do.

It’s just... _Oliver Queen_!?

Aesthetically, Oliver Queen is basically flawless, and if what Dig’s saying is true, he might even be _less_  of a douchebag these days. But the man leered at her ass for ten minutes and called her sweetcheeks, so even if she’s ready to entertain the possibility of a PR relationship, she’s _definitely_ not ready to consider doing it with _him_  yet.

Doing the fake relationship thing. Not _other_  things.

Ugh.

With a long-suffering sigh, Felicity turns a moderately resentful look to Dig. “I’m _not_  agreeing to this,” she warns him. “But I’ll think about it.”

Dig grins outright. “I’ll set up a meeting for you and Oliver.”

“No, no, no -- I’m entertaining the _idea_ ,” she protests. “Not the specific person you suggested to play the role of my boyfriend.” She crinkles her nose as another thought occurs to her. “Is he even a good enough actor to do this? I’ve only seen him in those movies where he’s all hot and shirtless and brooding.” She gets very slightly distracted, thinking back to those enjoyable moments in cinematic history. “I mean, he’s really good at standing around being hot. And at hitting things really hard. But acting like he’s besotted?”

Diggle smirks at her. “Well, you already know he likes your ass.”

“John Diggle!”

He shrugs. “Two incredibly attractive people with a little bit of dislike in the mix,” he says. “That’ll read as passion.”

She is unpersuaded. “What if I passionately _hate_  him? What if he hates me?”

But Dig is just sitting there grinning at her with that stupid, amused face of his, and Felicity is already starting to regret this. That feeling doesn’t fade a bit when Diggle taps her knee and says, “You two are gonna light up the cameras, Felicity. Trust me.”

-30-


	2. Chapter 2

Oliver figured something was up when he arrived to his meeting with Lyla to find her husband also waiting for him. He didn't typically expect his agent to invite her spouse to business meetings.

Oliver put a high premium on privacy and honesty these days, so seeing the man waiting patiently in the couple’s living room put him slightly on edge. Which was kind of unreasonable on Oliver’s part, since he was literally standing in their home.

But still. Oliver didn’t like to be put off balance, and that’s how he felt.

“Mr. Diggle,” Oliver nods at the man sitting in an armchair.

He shakes the hand Oliver offers. “Call me Diggle, or Dig.”

“Okay, Dig.” Oliver says, releasing Diggle’s hand, and then pressing his palms against his thighs awkwardly as he tries to figure out what’s next.

Lyla had introduced John in passing at a company party for new talent, but Oliver hadn’t seen him since, and the two seemed serious about keeping their work lives separate. When Oliver had first met with Lyla after leaving Isabel and her agency, she’d emphasized her stance on confidentiality. She had told him - in the unflinching manner she was known for - that although she was married to another agent and managed other successful players in the industry, she didn’t talk about the work she did for them or their private lives without their explicit permission, and that he should expect nothing less out of anyone who represented him. 

After the media circus surrounding Thea’s overdose and subsequent treatment, hearing Lyla’s no-nonsense promise had been refreshing. It had been one of the major reasons Oliver had gone with her.

As if sensing his discomfort, Lyla motions for him to sit next to her on the couch. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

He does, and immediately sinks down into the cushions, but he also lands on a big aqua throw pillow that he has to pull out from behind his back. It takes him a minute to figure out where to put it - there’s not enough room to put it between him and Lyla, so it ends up in his lap. While it’s nice to sit on a piece of furniture that didn’t seem like it was going to break any moment under his large frame, he also feels a little ridiculous. “I was surprised you didn’t want to meet at your office downtown.”

She watches him settle in with obvious amusement - leaving Oliver to wonder if this was some weird power thing - and gives him an enigmatic smile. “We wanted to discuss something with you that we thought would go better in an informal environment.”

Oliver looks back and forth between the two of them, officially lost. “We?”

“I’m sure you’re aware that Lyla and I work at the same firm, although I specialize in the music industry rather than film and television,” Diggle says.

Diggle’s face is inscrutable, and Oliver can’t figure out why that would be important to whatever conversation that they’re about to have. “I am. I looked into all of the agents at the firm before I contacted Lyla.”

Oliver meant that as a compliment, and Lyla seemed to take it as such if her small smile was any indication. “John came to me with an idea that, as your agent, I suggest you seriously consider.”

“Okay,” Oliver says, drawing it out a little, “why don’t you tell me what the idea is so that I can consider it?”

For some reason, that seems to amuse Diggle. “We think you should have a public relationship with one of my clients,” he says bluntly.

He can’t possibly have heard that correctly. “A relationship?” he asks blankly.

“A public one,” Lyla repeats. “Not private. You wouldn’t have to have any contact outside of what’s staged.”

“Staged?” Oliver parrots, feeling as dumb as he probably sounds.

Lyla puts on an air of practiced patience. “You’ve said repeatedly that your goal is to change the perception the public and the industry has of you. We’re suggesting a...managed, high-profile relationship with someone who needs to encourage her own shift in persona. It would be a mutually beneficial agreement.”

“So it would be a publicity stunt?” Oliver finally begins to understand what they’re presenting, and he gets a little angry. He imagines whoring himself out to a cloud of paparazzi, clinging to a stranger and using her for his own benefit, and it feels so awfully familiar that his stomach clenches. “Please correct me if I’m wrong, but this plan sounds precisely like the sort of thing I told you I wanted to avoid when I signed on with you.”

Lyla meets his eyes head on. “I promise you it’s not. You are still a controversial figure, Oliver,” Oliver opens his mouth to protest, but she holds up a hand. “You may have cleaned up your act recently, but you have years of highly visible womanizing, brawling, and law-breaking to contend with.”

“I am not - I _will not_ \- be that guy anymore,” Oliver grits out.

Lyla appears unfazed by his indignation. “I realize that. You’re a sober and private man now, and that’s commendable. But while you’re living the quiet life, every tabloid from here to New York is dredging up your arrest record and speculating about your next one night stand. We have to give them something else to talk about, something that is actively good for you and your image.”

He knows that Lyla is speaking the truth, and he’s more frustrated with his former self than with her. Still, it’s difficult to listen to her lay out his past so frankly, to pin down the thoughtless person he’d allowed himself be for so long. 

He’s fully aware of his mistakes. All of the effort he’s put in - cutting ties with Isabel and her resistance to his seeking higher-quality roles and attention, becoming a man that Thea could be proud of and rely on, getting used to living with himself instead of pouring his insecurities into alcohol and bravado - all of it he’s done to try to make up for, or at least move on from, those mistakes.

What Lyla is telling him is that trying to be a good man, actually _being_ better, may not be enough to convince people that he's changed, at least not on the scale he needs to move forward. It's a disheartening reality check.

But given how often he still sees his last mugshot on the cover of the rags, he can't help but see her point.

“I know we haven't worked together for very long, Oliver, but like you said, you did your research before you hired me. You know my reputation. We _can_ move your career onto the path you want, but you have to trust me to get you there.”

They let Oliver sit in silence for a while, and he gets that Lyla wants him to feel like this is a decision he's making, rather than one he's being pressured into. He appreciates it.

Ultimately, though, Lyla’s right - she has a solid track record in the business, and she has proven herself through the success of her clients. It also occurs to him that she didn't _have_ to accept him as a client - he’s made plenty of money as a rote action star, but she's taking a risk on him, betting that he can handle the more serious roles he's wanting to take on. If he fails, her credibility, reputation, and future income will take a hit. 

They both have something to lose, and Oliver can either trust that she knows what she's doing, or he should save them both the trouble and find a new agent.

Oliver decides to trust her.

“Who are we talking about here?” he asks finally, looking over the coffee table to Diggle.

There’s a note of approval on Diggle’s face, but also something else that Oliver can’t place. “Felicity Smoak.”

Oliver blinks. It’s not like he’d known who they were going to suggest, but he definitely hadn’t expected it would be the effervescent pop star whose songs Thea and her friends used to sing along with during sleepovers.

Oliver is transported back to his first impression of her from a few years ago, which had been as shallow as he'd been at the time. Oliver had assumed that she was young, since her songs mostly appealed to younger audience, until he actually saw her. 

He remembers thinking that she looked fresh and innocent, but in a sexy, girl-next-door-with-a-great-ass kind of way, and he’s afraid he might have said as much to her. He can still picture the disgusted glare she’d thrown him; getting rejected by a beautiful woman had been noteworthy at the time, and it had done weird things to his insides.

What particularly stands out in his memories, though, is how colorful she'd seemed to him, even in his inebriated stupor. Pink, actually. She had seemed very, very pink.

“I’m...not sure she’s my type.” Although, if Oliver was being honest with himself, he hadn't really ever had one. Unless one counted ‘breathing and willing’ as a type.

Oliver cringes internally at himself after that thought.

Lyla and Diggle appear to be thinking along the same lines, exchanging a look. “That's exactly why we’re suggesting her,” Lyla says.

Oliver shifts on the couch, frowning. “Okay, I understand distracting the media with a positive story. But how is my pretending to date this woman going to improve my image?”

“She’s beloved across your target demographics, and she's historically been very discerning about who she's associated with. If Felicity Smoak says there’s something wholesome and lovable about you, her fans - and more importantly, the media - will believe her,” Lyla says. “If she likes you, they’ll like you.”

“A rising tide lifts all boats?” Oliver asks wryly.

“If you want to look at it that way, yes. Up until now, your ship’s been sinking.” Lyla pauses. “God, that's a terrible metaphor.”

It really is, but Lyla’s humor lightens the conversation some. “If you can make a relationship with Felicity seem solid, even if it’s only for a couple of months, it will go a long way in showing how much progress you’ve made. When was the last time you had a girlfriend that lasted more than a few dates?”

He’s currently in a self-imposed dry spell, and before that...he couldn’t think of the last time he’d _been_ on an real date - the kind that required deliberate effort rather than falling sideways into a girl at a bar, and manners in front of other people, and rooms that did not include beds or a convenient flat surface - and she knows it. He rubs a hand over his newly-cropped hair and side-eyes her in lieu of commenting. 

He can tell that Lyla tries not to grin in reply, it just doesn’t quite work out. “So Felicity will soften you, and make you seem more stable to directors and casting agents. They need to _see_ that you have the capacity for more serious, complicated connections so that they can envision you in those kinds of parts. ”

With Lyla laying all of that out so logically, Oliver can understand it. What he doesn’t get is why Felicity Smoak would attach herself to _him._ If Lyla’s right, and he’s a sinking ship, he’s grown well past the point of wanting to take anyone down with him. “What’s in it for her?” 

“Believe it or not, Felicity’s at a critical point in her career too,” Diggle speaks up, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “She’s making a shift in sound, and we’ve got to sell her fanbase and the label on it. If she’s going to be successful, she has to develop an image that fits organically with the new album. That’s where you come in.”

Oliver’s eyebrows go up. “How so?”

“You don’t know? You’re showbusiness’ favorite bad boy, Oliver. Or you were,” Diggle acknowledges lightly. “Being in a relationship with you gives her an edge, makes a statement that she’s not the good girl she used to be.”

Oliver resists a sigh, seeking out the big window on the side of the living room that overlooks the bay in the distance. The sun is just starting to hang low, and he lets the pretty blues and purples that spread out calm him as he tries not to be rankled by Diggle’s words.

He’s genuinely unsure whether he’s upset at the idea that he’s so problematic he could sharpen and darken her persona, or if he’s happy that at least someone could get something useful out of his terrible reputation.

He turns back to Lyla. “So she’ll brighten me and I’ll tarnish her. Sounds like a perfect match.” His tone isn’t quite bitter, but it’s close.

“Your words, not mine,” she says gently.

So what if Felicity Smoak wants to use him to change her persona? In a way, his jab about being a perfect match is true: he of all people should be able to understand what a burden it is know that the person other people see isn’t who you are, will never be who you are. Playing her reformed bad boy boyfriend so she can roughen up her image shouldn’t bother him. Except it does.

Because he may not know her, but he can call up her face; her bright, intelligent countenance that lights up billboards and music videos. He envies that. She can give him a little bit of her light, and he’ll take it, but does she know how permanent his kind of darkness is?

He’d give anything to go back and unmake all of the decisions that led him to this point, to this place where he can’t see his little sister for more than an hour a week, where he needs a fake romance with a woman he’s only met once just to prove he’s likeable enough to keep working. In a few years, when this stunt is over and the change is permanent, will she want to go back and undo this choice, like he wants to undo his?

In the end, though, he supposes it doesn’t matter. Because he can’t, and she can’t, and this is what’s left. He might as well make the best of it.

Shaking his head minutely, he regards Diggle again. “And she’s agreed to this?”

“We talked it through this morning, and she’s open to it, yes.”

There really wasn’t anything left to talk about then. “What’s next?”

“We set up a coffee date for the two of you Friday morning at Jitters, just a low key chance for you to get to know each other,” Diggle refers to Lyla for confirmation, and at her nod continues, “then when you’re both ready, we’ll all meet to hammer out the finer details. We’ll want to be deliberate about your appearances together to maximize the benefits, but we should be able to come up with a plan that works for both of you.”

“Alright,” Oliver says, putting aside the giant aqua pillow that had served as a hand-hold of sorts - maybe that’s what Lyla had been going for - and standing. “Tell Felicity I’ll see her Friday morning.”

“I will,” Diggle says, before silently communicating something to Lyla with a look.

Lyla holds her hand out to Oliver. “Thank you again for coming out. And for trusting me.”

“Of course.” They shake, and Lyla disappears, leaving him behind with Diggle. 

Oliver is about to make his way to the door when Diggle stops him. “One last thing.”

He stills at the new tone in Diggle’s voice, wary. “Yeah?”

“I like you, Oliver. I think you have real potential, and I believe you when you say you're trying to be a better person.”

“But?” he asks. He could have heard it coming from a mile away.

“But I care about Felicity, and not just because she's my client. She's a good person, and she could be good for you if you let her.” Diggle steps forward, and although they're mostly the same height, the other man looms in that moment. “If you fool around with her, if you're careless with her, I will personally do everything I can to ruin what's left of your career. Are we clear?”

The Ollie of before would have dismissed this, or reminded Diggle that this was his idea to begin with, or bristled at the threat, but this Oliver doesn't. He can't. All he can think is: if Thea had had someone like Diggle - if Oliver had been the brother she deserved - would she have suffered as long or as badly as she had last year? Would she be in rehab now?

And because he knows the answer to that question - really, has known since the moment he got the terrible call from his mother - he treats Diggle’s concerns with the seriousness they deserve. 

He meets Diggle's eyes steadily, hoping his sincerity comes across. “We're clear.”

Diggle considers Oliver for what feels like a long time, and Oliver resists the urge to shift under his scrutiny. But then he seems satisfied by whatever he finds in Oliver, because he nods. Oliver tries not to think too hard about the relief he feels at that.

“Good,” Diggle says, then grins. “Now you just have to convince Felicity.”

“I thought you said she already agreed.”

“Oh, she agreed to the strategy,” Diggle claps him hard on the back on his way out of the living room. “But I don't think she's sold on _you._ Good luck with that.”

Oliver really doesn't think Diggle has to be so gleeful about it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say a huge thanks for the warm reception y'all have given this story, *and* to Genie for agreeing to toss this idea around while putting up with my writing idiosyncracities. :) -Macha

 

 

 

Felicity is an organized person.

She believes in math and sticking to schedules and learning everything you possibly can about a situation before you go blundering into it. It’s a quality she learned from her mother, strangely enough. Not that Donna is a rigorously organized person (at all!), but when Felicity was growing up, she’d watched her mother manage every month to balance all the childcare stress and stretch her paycheck to pay bills and still get Felicity to her science club meetings. For Donna, life had been about staving off disaster; in response, for Felicity, organization became a guiding principle of her life, even before she became famous and crazily busy.

Felicity’s careful attention to detail is probably how she’s been able to successfully manage her money and her insane touring schedule and slow steady progress on her college degree and the occasional family commitment over the past eight years.

Her organizational enthusiasm is _definitely_  why she’s sitting in Jitters ten minutes before her appointed meeting with Oliver Queen, with four hours of preparation under her belt. Her examination of Oliver Queen’s life -- or at least the parts of his life that have been on public display the past decade -- is why she is not in the _least_  surprised when the clock ticks past eleven with no sign of him.

“An inauspicious beginning,” she mutters, flipping to her text app to send Diggle a question: _How long do I have to wait before I’m officially Stood Up By Ollie Queen?_ There’s an inkling of something akin to relief at the thought -- sure, it would be kind of annoying, but also maybe she and Dig should take Oliver Queen’s impending no-show as a sign that this plan is a _bad_  idea.

Dig answers her text before she can spin too wildly in that direction: _It’s 11:03. Give the guy a chance._

She huffs at her phone and places it face down on the table. Taking a long, fortifying sip of her non-fat, no whip vanilla latte, she glances around Jitters. It’s a warm, modern cafe with (as it turns out) _excellent_  espresso and a relatively cozy atmosphere. The clientele are an eclectic mix of office workers rushing in and out for a mid-morning fix, students mainlining coffee and knowledge, and a smattering of random other people, mostly dressed in jeans or shirts, paired with the occasional ironic t-shirt.

Felicity’s goal is to appear to the casual observer as a member of that last group -- just a young woman stopping by for coffee, _certainly_  no one that anyone should pay much attention to.

Consequently, she’s chosen a booth near the back, which is separated enough from the nearby tables to provide some measure of privacy and increase their chances of staying unnoticed. She’s wearing her Totally Not That Girl From That Thing clothes -- turquoise Chuck Taylors, dark wash skinny jeans, and a faded old t-shirt of Donna’s she’d stolen years ago that advertises The Sands Casino -- “Still the Place to Play.” Her newly shoulder-length lavender hair is loose and wavy, and she’d done the no-makeup makeup look paired with a shiny, berry lip gloss -- _anything_  but her trademark Smoakscreen pink. It’s an almost 100% effective “Nope, I’m not Felicity Smoak” look, in her experience.

So far, no one in Jitters has paid her much attention.

She glances around again, checking for Oliver, and hums her irritation when there’s no sign of him. She flips her phone over and checks the time. 11:07.

 _His chance is officially over at 11:10_ , she texts Dig, and just as she hits send, the background noise all around her -- the murmur of a dozen conversations and piped in music -- hushes ominously. Felicity’s stomach drops in recognition; something or _someone_  has suddenly captured the attention of everyone in this coffee shop.

“Three guesses who’s here,” she mutters to herself, “and the first two don’t count.”

Her attention shifts to the door, where -- oh, _frak_  -- Oliver Queen stands just inside the cafe, scanning the crowd and looking _aggressively attractive_.

For reasons passing understanding, Oliver Queen showed up rocking the Full Movie Star look for their meeting -- artfully scuffed leather ankle boots, cuffed designer jeans, a snug black t-shirt, and dark black sunglasses that discourage the peons from attempting to make eye contact. He’s also cropped his hair and grown a scruffy beard sometime in the past year or so, and the entire _Behold: A Movie Star Walks Among You_  package is something that Felicity should be mostly repulsed by.

Somehow, it is _working_ for him. Really a lot.

In fact, Oliver Queen looks _scrumptious_. Like, _seven_ orders of magnitude too smoldering for any sort of low key meeting, and now that her shock is starting to wear off, she’s feeling a little pissed. What is he _thinking_?

Felicity is, at this point, openly glowering at him. And then he glances around the cafe, clearly looking for her. When he catches her gaze, he pauses, lifting his chin and quirking his lips in some Cool Guy acknowledgment before he heads to the counter to order.

“Well,” she mutters to herself, leaning back in the booth and tugging her coffee closer, “I guess we’re _not_  going for under the radar.” She can feel a dozen curious eyes on her, wondering who _Ollie Queen_  is here to meet, and she wonders how well her casual look will hold up under scrutiny. Probably the hair will help a lot -- _Felicity Smoak_  is a blonde.

But in the social media age, everyone in here with a cellphone camera is a potential member of the paparazzi. Which means a countdown clock starts ticking in the back of Felicity’s mind, before Oliver even makes it to the table. She _hopes_  their fellow patrons won’t actually come over for conversation or pictures, but she knows their luck will only hold out for so long.

As he waits for his coffee, Oliver leans one elbow on the counter, ankles crossed, and the entire effect is like he’s in some sort of photo shoot for unattainably beautiful men against everyday backdrops. It doesn’t escape Felicity’s notice that his right hand is doing some sort of twitchy, repetitive action down near his thigh. Impatience? Nerves? Hard to say.

Before she’s really ready, Oliver has a cardboard cup in his hand and is headed straight for her. He reaches her booth, puts his coffee down, and says, “Felicity Smoak? Hi, I’m Oliver Queen. I don’t think we’ve ever properly met.”

And if she thought he was scrumptious from thirty feet away, he is _ridiculous_  up close. Particularly when he reaches up and tugs off his sunglasses, revealing sharp, bright blue eyes.

Felicity reacts without really thinking about it, slipping out of the booth and thrusting her hand in his general direction -- because aren’t you supposed to stand up to shake someone’s hand? Is hand-shaking a reasonable thing to do with a perfect stranger who might soon be your fake boyfriend? Is _every single person_  in this Jitters watching them right now? “Felicity, yes,” she manages. “That’s me. Hi.”

Oliver glances down at the hand that she has unthinkingly thrust towards his midsection. His mouth quirks in a way that suggest he’s trying really hard not to smile, and then he takes her hand and tugs her closer, leaning down and giving her a half hug with his left hand landing big and warm in the middle of her back. “It’s good to see you again,” he says, pulling back. It’s probably her imagination that his cheeks go a bit pink when he adds, “It’s good to see you when I’m actually sober.”

The memory of their one prior interaction hits her like a bucket of ice water. Right. _Sweetcheeks_. Ugh. “Yes,” she answers a beat too late, her tone cooler now. “It is.” She gives his hand a weirdly firm shake, squeezing that perfect amount that Dig taught her, and then releases him and steps back.

Oliver waits courteously until she slips back into the booth to take a seat. And then they simply... sit across from each other, with Felicity’s phone, two coffee cups, and a vast expanse of tabletop between them.

They look at each other.

In silence.

Felicity is torn between a squirming, anxious search for _something_  to talk about, and lingering discomfort from the _sweetcheeks_  thing. Across from her, Oliver clears his throat before taking a long sip of his coffee. When he puts the cup back down, he spins it absently as he glances at her and away.

Felicity’s pulse spikes. This is _awful_. This is a terrible idea, she’d known it would be, but she’d agreed to meet with him anyway. Ugh, why does she make such bad life choices? How hard would it have been to just debut the new look on her Instagram?

“Uh,” he says, sounding uncertain in a way that Felicity would have never expected. Her focus sharpens -- his lips are pressed together, his gaze skating away from her, and there’s a bit of color in his cheeks. He looks genuinely regretful and embarrassed, and Felicity wonders just how good an actor Oliver Queen is. “Yeah,” he continues, meeting her gaze directly. “I’m-- I’m sorry about that. About before. I was--” He stops short, shakes his head, and takes a breath. “I’m sorry.”

Felicity narrows her eyes, studying him for signs of insincerity. She doesn’t know Oliver Queen. Obviously. But this guy sitting across from her? He is nothing like the lecherous jerk she remembers from that party, never mind the thoughtless moron who’d been _gleefully_  chronicled in hundreds of tabloid articles and one truly terrible unauthorized autobiography, _The Royal Pain_. (No, she didn’t buy it, but she may have _acquired_  the ebook and then searched for important terms like _arrest_  and _drunk_  and _sex_  -- those three words appeared an alarming number of times in the text.)

Felicity doesn’t know what to make of the man in front of her, but she is far too polite not to accept his apology. “It was a long time ago,” she tells Oliver. “Let’s forget about it.” She means it, and she will try, but she’s not sure how quickly her instinctive wariness about this man will fade.

Oliver actually seems relieved, his shoulders loosening a bit as he shifts in his seat, and Felicity wonders again how much of this is real. “Thank you,” he says. “And thanks for meeting me anyway.” He takes a quick sip of coffee. “I, uh, don’t really know the protocol for this... kind of thing.”

Felicity finds herself nodding a little too enthusiastically, trying to smooth over this unbearable awkwardness. “Yeah, there isn't really a manual, is there?” And then quieter, fingers idly playing with her hair, “Believe me, I checked.”

“You do seem like the type that likes to be prepared,” he remarks.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks, somewhat offended. Because she _does_  like to be prepared, but she’s fully aware that many people find that trait odd. Or a reason to mock her. Sure, she’s popular _now_ , but she remembers quite clearly what it was like to be a ten-year-old 8th grader, too small and too smart and _way_  too talkative for her new peers. She remembers the confusing sting of rejection. Felicity is no longer self-conscious about her intelligence or her particular habits, but apparently she hasn’t yet outgrown her reflexive defensiveness.

So maybe it’s not surprising that she takes a bit of pleasure at how his eyes widen slightly at her words, and how he suddenly sits a little straighter. “Nothing -- just that, you know--” He takes a breath and lets it out quickly-- “of the two of us you seem more... _together_?”

He winces at the end, looking off just over her left shoulder. It’s all she can do not to smirk at his reaction. She wouldn’t say he’s _flustered_ , necessarily, but this back and forth is absolutely helping her learn how to read him.

She’s never been particularly good at expressing herself extemporaneously, but she _has_  always been a keen observer of others. What she sees from Oliver so far is a man with too many masks. There’s the whole _Movie Star_  persona he'd put on before walking into Jitters, but he’s using it to cover something that strikes her as anxiety and a deep uncertainty. Then there’s the confident man who’d introduced himself, in contrast to the almost bashful man struggling to put a sentence together when he’d tried to apologize.

When Felicity considers the massive changes to his life over the past year or so, she’s inclined to believe that even Oliver _himself_  isn’t sure which of these men is the real him. She believes Dig and Lyla that Oliver is doing his best to be a better man, but what if it doesn’t take?

Can she really trust that he won’t agree to this, and then drunkenly and publicly humiliate her?

“Yes, I did notice that you were late,” she says finally, and Oliver’s gaze snaps back to hers warily. Maybe this is a harsh tactic, but she needs to get a better sense of this strange, new Oliver Queen before she agrees to this arrangement. So she pauses, making a point of sweeping her eyes from the top of his head to his torso, before commenting, “I can't believe you showed up to an interview like that."

"An interview?” His eyes narrow at her, his posture changes again into something a little harder, and she thinks she might actually be seeing a different kind of unplanned, unfiltered response. “You think I'm _interviewing_  to be your pretend boyfriend?" he asks incredulously.

"We're interviewing each other, obviously." She adopts a tone of polite skepticism and tips her head. “What do you think you would bring to a relationship with me?”

She tells herself that needling him is necessary, that she needs an honest reaction out of him. But a part of her is at least self-aware enough to realize she’s waiting -- perhaps unfairly -- for the jerk she remembers to appear. If she can unearth the Ollie she witnessed before, then he’s more predictable, and she stands a better chance of controlling the outcome of this whole thing.

Or calling the whole thing off before it starts. That’s _definitely_  an option she’d be happy to consider if it seems like everything could go off the rails. She’s as much a control freak as she ever was, and she wonders whether that realization would amuse Diggle or disappoint him.

She’s leaning towards the latter. And it makes her squirm, because she _hates_  disappointing Dig.

But this quasi-confrontational _thing_  between she and Oliver that she’s set in motion might be slipping out of her control now, because there’s not much warmth or self-deprecation in Oliver’s expression anymore. In fact, his body language is tense and closed off, and she’s half-expecting him to get up and leave. Instead, he glares at her and demands, “You’re honestly asking me what my qualifications are for having a fake relationship with you?”

Felicity tips her head towards the people all around them. “You might want to keep your voice down, unless you want those fourteen-year-old girls live-tweeting our interview.”

And in fact, there’s a girl sitting two tables away with her phone aimed _right_  at them. Felicity eyes the cellphone model for a second, until she’s comfortable that the standard recording capabilities on that thing won’t be able to pick up their conversation from that distance. Still, she shifts, bringing a hand up to her face to ruin the girl’s shot. Oliver might be fine with cellphone pics of him at Jitters, but Felicity would rather avoid being identified and included.

Oliver is still glaring at her, oblivious to the many watchful eyes on them. “This is not an _interview_ \--” He cuts off abruptly, and then leans forward, replying in a low, rough voice that is doing things to her stomach she’s just going to ignore. “Okay. Let’s talk about my _qualifications_.”

Her pulse speeds up and she lifts a placating hand. “Oliver--”

“Right now, you’re bubblegum pop. You’re bland, pink, and safe.” He doesn’t react to her indignant gasp, reaching across the table to touch her hair. Felicity’s breath catches when he lazily twirls one lock around his finger before sitting back. He quirks an eyebrow, and she can read the sarcastic _even your hair is pink_  in his face.

“ _Lavender_ ,” she corrects breathlessly. And why are her stupid lungs being so weird? All he touched was her hair, and she’s pretty sure she doesn’t even like him in the first place. God, he’s infuriating.

Oliver just smirks at her some more. “You need me. You need my reputation and my _attention_  so that you can show everyone you’re not just their shallow pop princess anymore.” His voice is low and mesmerizing when he adds, “You need me to take you _deeper_.”

Her body reacts very positively to the utter _suggestiveness_  in his voice, but her mind revolts. She realizes far too late that she may have overplayed her hand here. But she refuses to back down. Instead, she leans into him. She knows that anyone taking pictures is going to post them with something like _Ollie Queen gazing at mystery woman_ , but she doesn’t care right now.

“I don’t _need_  you,” she argues. “Yes, being associated with you could rough up my image a bit, and that could help pave the way for my next album. But my music will speak for itself. It might take a little longer that way, but I’m a patient woman.” She lifts her chin. “How many offers do you have on the table?”

It’s a bit of a low blow -- she read a dozen recent interviews with him, and she’s fluent in PR bullshit, so she understands what he means when he says he’s _just waiting for the right project_  and _taking some time for himself_. There’s no one breaking down his door. His career’s not _over_ , but it’s definitely in jeopardy.

Oliver works his jaw. “I’m not a fuckup anymore,” he says, brow furrowed. Then he eases back in his seat, glancing away and taking a deep breath. “Look, you don’t know me, and I don’t know you, but our agents think this idea has some merit.”

She’s still a little indignant, but goading him into some sort of public argument isn’t exactly the kind of publicity either of them needs. “Yes. They do. I’m not 100% convinced. Are you?”

The question hangs uneasily between them.

Oliver presses his lips together, then rolls his shoulders in a half shrug. “Not entirely,” he admits. “But they made a compelling case for it.”

 _They_ , Felicity wonders. Did Diggle and Lyla have to gang up on him? Was he _that_ difficult to persuade? Should the possibility that he was reluctant to fake-date her really sting quite this much?

Yes, she'd been uncertain about the idea, and skeptical about him. But somehow the idea that _he_ might find _her_ wanting had not occurred to her. An uncomfortable feeling starts to unfurl in her chest as she thinks back to the things she'd said just a few minutes ago -- she'd been so preoccupied with protecting herself, that she hadn't considered he might think she wouldn't be good for _him_.

“Logically, it makes sense,” Felicity answers slowly. “Do you really think I would help your career?” Diggle and Lyla seemed pretty confident about it, but she needs to make sure Oliver agrees.

Oliver licks his lips, staring down at his coffee cup for a long moment. “Probably,” he admits. He meets her gaze. “I spent a lot of years being a selfish asshole, and I hurt a lot of people. And 75% of it ended up in the tabloids. That’s a hard image to shake.” He clears his throat, turning his coffee cup in little circles again. “I’m an easy man to hate.” His voice is low and soft and full of regret.

Felicity has no idea what to say to that. She wants to contradict him, to tell him he’s wrong, but -- he’s really not. The Ollie Queen from that party? She’d found him pretty hate-able. Her behavior earlier probably made that obvious. “I’m sure--” she starts, but he talks over her.

“It’s okay, it’s my own fault.” He shakes his head minutely, a sad little smile on his lips. “My reputation is well-earned. _Deserved_. I have no idea what this--” He waves a hand in the space between them-- “would do, if anything, but people certainly seem to love you.”

She wants to protest, to say they love the Felicity they think she is, the person she let the label invent because it sold music. They don’t see the woman who’s still reeling, still drowning in guilt. She’s never thought herself a particularly gifted actress, but no one other than Dig really seems to have _noticed_  the changes in her over the last year.

It’s partially her fault; she’d always been wary of giving too much of herself -- or _any_ of herself, really -- to others, afraid that it would mean losing herself in the process. Her time with Cooper and the aftermath have only driven home how real a risk that is.

So she doesn’t tell any of that to Oliver. Instead, she says, “Right. The idea is logical.” She watches him for a moment, then shrugs, feeling strangely helpless. “But I’m not sure anyone will _believe_  us. I mean, it’s unthinkable, right? You and me? Do you really see this working?”

Oliver’s expression shutters, and it’s like he’s suddenly a shell of the man who’d been sitting there. “I don’t know,” he says, his tone flat. “I guess not.”

That anxiety is back, that uncomfortable buzz along her skin. It feels a lot like rejection, which is absurd because she hadn't even wanted to do this to begin with. She doesn't want Oliver Queen, and he doesn't want her.

Felicity takes a long, fortifying sip of her coffee, making a genuine noise of distress when she reaches the end of her drink. “ _Frak_.”

To her surprise, Oliver is already pushing himself to his feet. “What would you like?” he asks, his tone devoid of anything other than a bland, superficial politeness.

Felicity gapes at him for a moment, then shakes herself out of it. “Uh. Non-fat iced latte,” she decides. “Just one shot, please.” She really shouldn’t even have that, considering how wound up she is already.

Oliver nods and retreats, and Felicity sags back into her seat a bit, trying to regain some equilibrium. This interview or conversation or _whatever_  is not going as expected. Not that she really knew what to expect, but this oddly heavy, unbreakable tension wasn’t really an option she’d considered. She picks up her phone and texts Dig, _Yikes. We’re like oil and water._

Diggle answers so quickly that Felicity knows he’s been sitting there with his phone in his hand this whole time. _You say that and all I hear is chemistry_.

 _What I remember about chemistry class is all the uncontrolled explosions_ , she types back quickly, _which sounds like the OPPOSITE of a good PR strategy_.

She glances over at Oliver. He’s standing at the counter waiting for her drink and frantically texting. Probably he’s texting Lyla the same kinds of things that she’s texting Dig -- essentially, _THIS IS A TERRIBLE IDEA AND IT WILL BACKFIRE._

Movement beside her catches her attention and Felicity looks up just in time to see the girl who’d been not-so-subtly filming them talking earlier is walking quickly towards their booth. Felicity places her phone face down and reaches up to tuck her hair behind her ear. _Frak, frak, frak_.

“Hi,” the girl says in a thready, nervous voice. She’s young, maybe late teens, her cellphone clenched in one hand. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but is that really _Oliver Que_ \--” The girl stops abruptly, staring at Felicity. Her mouth drops open and, yup, this is officially a problem. “Oh, my God,” the girl squeaks. “ _Oh_ , my _God_ , you’re Felicity Smoak!”

 _Frak_.

Felicity smiles and offers her hand. “Hi, yes, you got me. What’s your name?” She’s found that when fans go into that overwhelmed state, it’s helpful to ask them simple questions that require only simple answers. Sometimes it snaps them back to reality.

“Stef,” the girl manages. “Are you--? Are you really...?” Stef looks over towards the counter and goes even more rigid.

When Felicity follows her gaze, she’s a little concerned the girl might pass out. Because, yeah, okay, Oliver Queen walking toward you with a friendly grin on his face? Is a little aggressive.

Oliver reaches the table and places Felicity’s latte down in front of her. “Your coffee,” he tells her, unnecessarily, and Stef makes a little choking noise as she cranes her neck to stare up at Oliver. “Hi,” Oliver says with that charming, movie star smile. “I’m Oliver.”

“This is Stef,” Felicity interjects, because she’s pretty sure Stef is non-verbal at the moment. “I think she’s a fan of yours.”

Stef nods frantically, then lifts her phone up in the universal sign for _please, please, please take a selfie with me_.

Oliver leans a little closer to Stef and says in an incredibly patient, kind tone, “Would you like to take a picture with us?”

Wait, _us_? Felicity gives him a violent head shake, but then Stef turns pleading eyes on her and Felicity suppresses the urge to sigh in wild exasperation. So much for keeping the fact that she and Oliver even know each other under the radar while they decide whether to go through with this cockamamie plan.

But the only thing worse than a picture of her and Oliver hitting twitter today is a picture of them accompanied by a story of how they were awful and rude and unfriendly. So Felicity summons up her best pop princess smile and slides out of the booth.

“Great!” Felicity chirps, moving to Stef’s side.

Stef’s hands are shaking badly, so Oliver offers to take the picture. “Huddle up,” he tells them both, pulling Stef between them. His arm is draped along Stef’s shoulders, but he lays his hand on Felicity’s back. He angles the phone to capture all three of their smiling faces. “Ready?” he asks, and takes the shot.

From what Felicity can tell, the picture is pretty cute -- Oliver is obscenely photogenic, Stef is making an adorably shocked face, and Felicity herself looks fine. Still, this isn’t exactly the way she would’ve chosen to debut her new look _or_  her fake relationship with Oliver Queen. _If_  she even decides to go through with that part; it would be easy enough for Dig to release a quick correction about Felicity and Oliver’s friendship, a simple _nothing to see here, move along, speculators_.

That wouldn’t kill all speculation, of course, but without anything else to suggest _more_  to Felicity and Oliver getting coffee on a random Friday morning, the story would fade.

So Felicity gives Stef a cheerful wave and settles back into her seat, at least for the moment. As soon as Oliver’s back across from her, she lowers her voice and says, “We should get out of here soon.” _There’ll be others_ is the unspoken part of that. She’s pretty sure no one but Stef has recognized her yet, but now that the rest of the patrons know it really is Oliver Queen here in Jitters, at least a few will work up the courage to come over and ask for their own selfies.

Any shot they had at a private conversation is gone.

Oliver nods. “Yeah, but you can finish your coffee if you want.”

The suggestion amuses her -- Felicity can drink coffee faster than any ten people she knows -- and she grins at him as she tugs the cup closer. “Thanks for this,” she says. “You didn’t have to.”

He shrugs, watching her with a slightly quirked eyebrow, as if he’s challenging her somehow. “A break in the conversation seemed like a good idea,” he answers.

Her smile fades a bit, and she starts on her drink. They sit in uneasy silence. Felicity can feel the attention of most of the people in the room aimed at them, and the discomfort from their earlier interactions, and _why_  did she ever listen to Dig about this?

Her text notification goes off four times in quick succession. Both Oliver and Felicity train their gazes on her phone, and she mutters, “That can’t be good,” just as Oliver shifts in his seat and pulls out his own buzzing phone. They exchange wary glances and unlock their phones.

Felicity’s texts are from Dig. _If you’re still at Jitters, you should leave_.

 _And you should call me_.

His third text is simply a link; his fourth text says, _See? Chemistry._

“Oh, no,” she whispers, and hits the link.

It turns out their new friend Stef had, indeed, been taking pictures of them prior to coming over to speak to them. And the shot she tweeted of them leaning towards each other, with Oliver curling a lock of Felicity’s hair around his finger while he _gazes_  at her? It’s going viral. Quickly. Felicity brings the phone closer to her face and groans. There’s clearly tension between them, but what Felicity _knows_  is irritation and mistrust comes across in the photo as blistering lust.

Then Oliver’s hand is on hers. She jerks her gaze to his, and he tilts his head towards the door. “We should _definitely_  go.”

Reflexively, Felicity glances over at Stef’s table, but the girl is gone. “We should talk about this,” she argues, holding up her phone so Oliver can see the picture.

By the way his jaw tightens, she can tell he’s seen it already. “The paparazzi will be here in ten minutes,” he points out. “I’d rather we not be here when they arrive.”

Felicity nods, scooping her sunglasses out of her bag and pushing to her feet, pausing only long enough to grab her partially drunk latte before heading to the door. Oliver is hot on her heels, but she is more concerned with all the eyes on them.

She pushes out onto the sidewalk and turns left, keeping a pleasantly neutral expression on her face as she slips her sunglasses on.

“Hey,” Oliver catches her elbow gently. “I’m that way,” he explains, hooking a thumb over his shoulder when she turns back to face him. He lets his hand trail down her arm until he can take her hand in his. Felicity stares up at him with wide, confused eyes. _What_  is he doing? He steps closer, his eyes squinting in the bright sunlight, his stupid movie star sunglasses clenched in his free hand. “Thanks for meeting me,” he tells her, then leans down to press a kiss to her cheek.

She shivers at the feel of that unruly scruff against her sensitive skin. Where Oliver Queen is _kissing_  her.

Not... not _kissing_  kissing. Just cheek kissing. But still -- definitely more action than she’d expected.

 _Oh, right_ , she thinks, _keeping up appearances_. She pulls her hand free and gives him a little wave. “No problem.”

This time, when he smiles down at her, it’s barely a curve of his lips, but it feels like the most genuine he’s been with her all day. “I’ll call you,” he says.

“Great,” she answers quickly. “Good, I mean.” She nods. “Yes. You should do that. Okay. Bye.” And with that artless response, she turns and walks away from the confusing, occasionally infuriating, unfairly attractive movie star that she might have just been trapped into fake dating.

“Frak.”

 

END CHAPTER THREE


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just want to very quickly thank the lovely Macha, who puts up with my slow writing and polishes this fic like whoa.

\----

Oliver always feels a little uncomfortable when he steps foot into the rehabilitation facility where Thea is being treated. Not just because it’s more like a high-end hotel than an in-patient clinic, with its attached spa and announcements indicating the times for ‘equine therapy’ (Oliver does not want to know what that therapy entails), but because he knows he just barely avoided a stay here himself. 

He dodged that bullet, but he’s not sure how. Luck, maybe, because he’d definitely gotten as close to the edge as he could, although he can honestly say he was never addicted to any of the _many_ substances he’d abused. It helped that he usually had Tommy to pull him back from the brink of _too far_. He’d never thought highly of most of Thea’s friends, so maybe that had been the difference.

At any rate, any desire to continue that lifestyle died the day Thea was found unresponsive on the floor of her bathroom. If rock bottom moments actually exist, that was his.

He’d been in LA, finishing up a press tour for his last movie. At the time his only worry was whether he could hit that last party and still have time to shower and lose a hangover (or whatever hanger-on he’d picked up) before the day’s first interview. He’d only ever really worried about himself then.

Until his mother had called, and all of his concern and energy refocused in an instant, down to the seconds-hand on his watch while he desperately tried to get out of LA and back to Starling City. She hadn’t needed to say it; he could hear the urgent _come home now_ in the tremble of her voice, and his own hands trembled the whole flight home. He doesn’t remember much about that trip, but he does remember the fear drumming in his head, a constant rhythm of _too late too late too late_.

He hadn’t been too late. Thea had survived. _Thank God_. And Oliver had sworn that the hour before that call was the last oblivious and selfish one he’d ever spend.

He shakes himself out of his dark thoughts when he reaches the reception area of the center, heading toward the pretty black woman behind the front desk to sign in. 

“Mr. Queen, how are you doing on this fine day?” asks Nurieh. She’s the lead case manager for Thea’s group, and by far Oliver’s favorite staffer at the facility.

“Better now that I’m here,” he says. Which is true. “Any chance I can go in a little early?”

He gives her his best 1000-watt, lead actor smile. Oliver’s always early for visitor hour, always trying for a few extra minutes with Thea.

Nurieh looks up at him with a raised eyebrow. “I see we’re turning up the charm. You know that I’m immune to that face, right?”

And she always shoots him down. Oddly, it’s why Nurieh is his favorite. She treats both Thea and him with kindness, but neither Oliver’s star status nor the Queen name impresses her. She gives Thea the kind of anonymity, uniformity. and structure she’s probably needed for a long time.

So while Oliver is disappointed, he’s not upset. He knows how important the rules are here, and he doesn’t want to make trouble for Nurieh *or* Thea. “I don’t know that you’re talking about,” he jokes.

Nurieh gives him a knowing look. “Mmhmm. Actually, there’s some good news on that front, but I’ll let Thea tell you. She’s been excited to see you all week.”

He starts to open his mouth, but she cuts him off with humor. “She can tell you _at_ three o’clock, just like every other Friday.”

So he signs the log, and trades his leather jacket for a visitor’s pass. After Nurieh returns from stowing his jacket in a locker, they go through the regular questions, confirming he’s not bringing any drugs or prohibited items into the center.

“I’ll take you down,” she says, and then leads him down the opposite hallway of where he normally goes.

“We’re not going to the activities room?” he asks, with a confused glance back towards the lobby. Because he’s spent as much time as possible here with Thea, and they’ve always been ushered into the activities room, a large, airy space with scattered seating around the edges and several tables in the center for the actual activities. Not that Oliver’s ever witnessed any crafting; most visits he and Thea settle into the slightly weathered leather couch in the far corner and talk. Over the past seven weeks, Oliver and his little sister have had surprisingly honest conversations -- it’s been strange, good, and painful by turns.

So he feels oddly bereft at the idea of not spending time in the room that made those talks possible.

Nurieh just smiles at him over her shoulder. “Nope.” 

He’s about to ask more, but then they stop in front of a large bedroom. The door is already open, so he can see where Thea sits inside in a stylish chair.

She jumps up when she sees him. “Ollie!” She throws her arms up, showing him her room. “Look, privacy! My wardens finally say I’m ready to entertain visitors in my own room,” she says to Nurieh over his shoulders, but it’s with a grin, and there’s only happiness in her voice.

He hesitates for a minute, searching her face for any sign of relapse (he’s not naive - he’s aware drugs and alcohol sometimes make it in even here), but all he sees are Thea’s clear, excited eyes, and he relaxes. 

“That’s great, Thea,” he says, pride infusing his voice with warmth. And, God, does he mean it. It’s been a rough road, with a truly terrifying number of setbacks. This place has been working wonders for her, but he still has trouble believing fully that this time, her recovery is for keeps. 

When he steps into her room, she practically runs to him and hugs him. She’s still too thin in his arms, though not dangerously so, the way she’d been when he’d first seen her comatose in the hospital after her overdose. The sight of her skeletally thin and so pale, the skin under her eyes like bruises, still haunts him.

“So what do you think?” she asks, stepping back and gesturing broadly at her room. She’s so bright, so vivid and alive that he has trouble tearing his attention from her smiling face to take in her room.

It’s a decent-sized space, though nothing like the vast bedroom suites they’d grown up in. Near the center of the room is a double bed covered in unmade neutral linens and a rumpled bright purple blanket; two overstuffed chairs and a small end table form a little seating space in the corner near the window; and there’s a small bathroom tucked beside the entryway. All in all, the layout reminds Oliver of an average hotel room, but the subtly high-end decor gives it more of a resort feel.

Oliver grins at his sister, genuinely pleased. “I like it a lot.” 

She grabs his arm and tugs him towards the chairs. “Okay, tell me everything.”

Oliver hesitates, then drops the rest of the way into his seat. “Tell you everything about what?” he asks. Because normally she’d be peppering him with a series of particular questions before detailing the projects she’s worked on all week, and occasionally gifting him the end results. He’s still wearing the bracelet she made out of embroidery thread.

“Duh,” Thea says, “about _Felicity Smoak_! Tell me all about your secret love affair with the totally kickass singer who is, brother dear, _so far_ out of your league. Is this like you and McKenna Hall, where you never even met, or like you and Isabel Rochev, where you guys stood weirdly close that one time and everyone made lots of assumptions about how you were _obviously_ sleeping together?”

Startled, Oliver just stares at her for a moment. Then he starts to feel a prickling sensation along his skin and, yes it’s been a while, but he recognizes it: he’s embarrassed. And maybe even a little flustered. How could she have heard about their date so quickly?

Thea looks delighted. “Oh my god, are you blushing? I thought this Felicity Smoak thing was just a pap exaggeration, I had no idea it was something to blush over.” She waggles her eyebrows at him and tucks her legs up underneath her, clearly relishing every moment of this.

He’s torn -- on the one hand he knows he needs to rein Thea in before she starts making wild assumptions about his relationship with Felicity, but on the other hand? He likes seeing her smile like that, likes how carefree she seems right now. He’s missed that impish grin of hers, and as embarrassed as he feels by this situation, he’s willing to do pretty much anything for his little sister, including letting her tease him until he blushes, as long as it makes her smile like that.

But he also knows that only thing that would steal that smile is her realizing that he’s lied to her. Thea needs to know that he respects and values her enough to tell her the truth, especially now. And that really makes the decision for him.

“Thea,” he says, trying to figure out where he should even start, “it’s not what you think it is.”

“Why? What do I think it is?” It’s such a needling tone that Oliver has to work not to smile and fuel her teasing. She’s clearly having fun with this, and if anyone knows how to ask leading questions, it’s his sister.

He takes a deep breath. “It’s... not real.” His voice is a little uncertain, and he shifts in his seat, waiting for Thea’s reaction.

But she simply scoffs at him. “Yeah, sure, I can see how fake it is by the way you’re all stutter-y and weird about it.” She drops her chin into her hand and smirks. “I literally do not remember you blushing over a girl ever in my entire life, Ollie.”

“Thea, I’m serious,” he says, leaning a bit closer. “Felicity and I are not actually dating.”

“Ew,” she answers swiftly, wrinkling her nose. “Please never tell me about some weird friends with benefits thing you have with _Felicity Smoak_.”

“Would you stop saying her name like that?” he demands.

“Hey,” Thea protests, “it’s not every day I find out my brother is sleeping with one of my _favorite singers_ in the world. She’s _Felicity Smoak_.”

“She’s just _Felicity_ ,” Oliver argues, and even he can hear the fondness in his tone when he says her name. What is _wrong_ with him? “And I’m not just _sleeping_ with her. I mean, I’m not sleeping with her at all. We’re just--” He stops and blows out a frustrated breath. “She and I are not dating, _or_ having sex.” He hesitates. “We’re _pretending_ to date. Publicly. For the press coverage.”

Thea watches him closely, scanning his face. “Yeah, no,” she says finally. “I don’t believe you.” 

“I’m telling you the truth,” he insists.

She doesn’t answer, shifting in her seat and producing a cellphone from her pocket.

“Wait, you’ve got your phone back?” Oliver asks, genuinely excited. Thea’d earned basic phone and email privileges weeks ago, but only in the form of monitored usage of the center’s desktop computers and landlines. Seeing her with her cellphone is more proof that she’s improving steadily.

Thea nods in response, much more focused flipping through files on her phone. “Yeah, this, brother dear, is _not_ fake.” She waggles the phone in his face, and when her hand stills, Oliver sees the picture of he and Felicity from Jitters -- not the picture with their new friend Stef, but the one Stef must’ve taken before talking to them. 

The picture is on a gossip site, and the headline is terrible, but he barely registers that. He’d only glanced at the picture when Felicity started panicking, so he’d missed just how… _intimate_ and damning it is. Looking at it now, if he didn’t know better, Oliver would believe the people in this picture were lovers. His chest feels oddly tight as he stares at the Felicity on the tiny screen -- she’s beautiful, which he already knows, but the way she’s looking at him…

“Not real _my ass_ ,” Thea says, taking her phone back and tossing it onto the end table. “You’ve got some major heart eyes going on, so tell me how you met.”

“Our agents set us up for coffee, and we met about 15 minutes before that picture was taken,” he answers flatly. Then he shifts a bit in his seat. “We met very briefly a few years ago at a party, but I… didn’t put my best foot forward.”

Thea snorts. “Never tell me details,” she warns with an exaggerated shudder. “Alright, fine, assuming I believe the fake part, which I’m still not sure I do: what do you think about her? Obviously you guys hit it off.”

That was one way to put it. “She’s...a handful.”

Thea raises her eyebrows at him. “She’s a handful? What is this, the ‘50s?”

“Thea--”

“No, I’m serious Ollie, what constitutes a handful? Keeping in mind that although reformed, you were once, like, a _handful_ _times infinity_.”

He’d forgotten how annoying she could be when she was at full strength. He’d actually kind of missed it. “I meant,” he says, pausing pointedly to make sure she’s finished, “that -- like me -- she has a strong personality.”

Thea snorts. “And that’s a bad thing?”

He thinks back to that booth at Jitters, at how confrontational Felicity had been at the beginning. It almost seemed like she’d been goading him, like she’d been hoping that he would snap back at her. Although she’d seemed just as unhappy when he _did_ react. He still can’t figure out why -- in some ways he finds her incredibly easy to read, and in other ways she remains a complete mystery to him.

It’s been a long time since a woman unsettled him this much.

“No,” he says at length. “But we did clash.”

“Really? You mean she didn’t immediately fall all over you and offer to have your babies?” she asks mockingly.

Oliver would take offense to that, but his brain supplies an image of what Felicity would look like were she to fall all over him, and he has to take a short mental break. He feels his cheeks warming again. 

Damn it.

Of course Thea, being hawked-eyed, sees it immediately. She whoops a laugh. “Right, nothing there at all, totally just a stunt. Oh, you’re a goner and I’m going to enjoy this. A lot. Watching you stumble your way through this is going to be golden.”

“Thank you, Speedy,” he replies wryly.

“It’s my absolute pleasure.” She appears to think about it a minute, getting slightly more serious. “Well, fake or not, there’s nothing saying you can’t enjoy yourselves.”

At Oliver’s look, she shrugs. “I’m just saying, you should try to have some fun too. You’ve both been through alot, you could use some fun.”

 _They’d both been through alot?_ Oliver wasn’t sure what she meant by that, and his confusion must have shown on his face. “Between me and my… issues,” Thea says tentatively, “and Felicity’s boyfriend dying, it’s been kind of a rough year for you guys.”

“Wait, what?” Oliver asks, stunned. He feels like the conversation has taken a sharp left turn, and he’s not strapped in. “What about Felicity’s boyfriend?”

“Cooper Seldon, he was the drummer for Brother Eye,” Thea explains. There’s something in her voice Oliver can’t quite interpret. Until she adds, “He got high last year and wrapped his car around a pole.”

Oliver sucks in a breath. That was...shocking and awful, and he immediately thinks about how it could _so easily_ have been his sister. Oliver _knows_ Thea drove drunk and high; he _knows_ that awful call from his mother could’ve been _so much_ worse. She’d gotten a DUI almost a year ago, but their mother had stepped in, enlisting the best defense attorney in Starling to get Thea out of jail. It’d worked -- she’d gotten community service, and free reign to keep getting high. 

He’s never thought he could consider it a good thing that Thea had overdosed when she did, but he thinks so now. It had been the wakeup call they’d all needed to get Thea real help, before she’d done something truly irreversible.

Apparently Felicity’s boyfriend hadn’t gotten the same chance. The thought of Felicity getting that call leaves him breathless.

Thea touches his knee, drawing him out of his dark thoughts. She’s watching him curiously as she explains, “It was all over the gossip sites for weeks. They broadcasted part of his funeral on EW _._ ” Thea leans toward him, concerned. “Seriously, Ollie, did you not know about this?”

“No, I…” _was a self-absorbed douchebag who didn’t care about any press that wasn’t mine._ “I had no idea.”

And suddenly so many things about their meeting at the coffeeshop, about Felicity herself, become incredibly clear. Her obvious reluctance and abrasiveness about their fake relationship, her abrupt change in sound that necessitated a change in her public image, and her anxiety about being photographed with him before they announced it.

All signs pointed to her trying to deal with pain and grief, and him being kind of a dick. “Fuck.”

Oliver looks up at Thea, and is relieved to see that she doesn’t look disappointed in him, just hesitant and a little worried. “You should tell her you didn’t know about Cooper. Like immediately, Ollie. You guys may not actually be going out, but you should at least try to be friends. You need to tell her you didn’t know.”

He winces, and then nods. “Yeah.”

It occurs to him that he’s already broken his promise to Diggle, although the man may not know it. He’d promised not to be careless with Felicity, but then he’d spent his first meeting with her being exactly that.

He hadn’t meant to be. It was just that Felicity disarmed him in ways he hadn’t been prepared for. 

At least it’s not too late for him to fix it. He hopes it’s not, anyway. It really depends on how many strikes Felicity’s willing to give him before she writes him off completely. Between his drunken leering at their first brief meeting, and his insensitivity today, he’s not looking great.

“Ollie,” Thea says hesitantly, breaking him out of thoughts of Felicity again. She meets his eyes with a resolve he’s started associating with her more and more these last few months. “I know that I could have been Cooper. I can’t imagine what it’s been like for Felicity, and I never meant to put you through anything close to that.”

“I know, Thea,” he replies gruffly. He doesn’t like to think about what life would be like without Thea; he’d spent enough time doing that in the early days after her overdose, and again when she relapsed after her first rehab attempt.

“No, I mean--” She takes a deep breath. “I was terrible to you and Mom for a long time, but that was about me, not you. I said and did a lot of things and I didn’t mean any of them, and I’m sorry.”

He’s not sure where this is coming from, if it’s a part of her program, but it’s obviously important to her. His first instinct is to say that it’s okay, but it’s not. Not just because it isn’t what she needs to hear, but also because he almost lost his sister, and he’s not okay with that.

So he says the harder, but truer thing. “I forgive you.”

“Thank you,” she says wispily. She visibly composes herself for a minute; it’s difficult for Oliver to watch, and he can’t help but reach for her hand.

“And I want to be here,” she tells him earnestly, holding his hand like a lifeline. “I didn’t at first, but I’m ready now. I’m getting better. I can do this.”

“Yes, you can.” He can see her progress, how hard she’s working, but he didn’t know how much he needed to hear her say those words until now. It’s hard to speak around the lump in his throat, and he can’t help how his voice breaks. “You can do anything.”

“Oh, Ollie, don’t cry.” She’s out of her chair hugging his neck and he can’t pretend he isn’t. “God, you’re such a baby,” she says, in true Thea fashion, but she’s sniffing too.

He laughs into her shoulder, deciding to play along. “No, _you’re_ a baby.”

“That’s mature,” she squeezes him one more time, then steps back and resettles in her chair. “Aren’t you supposed to be the older, wiser one?”

He clears his throat and wipes his eyes, which Thea is kind enough to ignore. “I don’t know who said that, but they’ve obviously never met me.”

Thea makes a show of considering him. “Eh, I think you’re pretty smart. For a Queen,” she teases.

“I love you too,” he says, responding to what she’s really saying.

She smiles, and he’s glad to see that she seems lighter. _He_ feels lighter, like they’ve resolved something he hadn’t even known was weighing on him. 

It lasts right up until she opens her mouth again. Her eyes are sparkling, and Oliver knows he’s in trouble. 

“So have you kissed Felicity yet?” she asks impishly. “Oh, and how is it going to work? Is it all scripted out, like in a contract? ‘Tongue is acceptable, but the parties thereunder shall not reach second base under penalty of lawsuit’?”

“Thea!”

END CHAPTER FOUR


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to positivethinkingforlosers for the artwork assist! You are the best, my darling. <3

 

 

 

It takes nearly 24 hours after the abrupt end of their coffee date, but Oliver _does_  actually call her.

Apparently.

She doesn’t know it at the time, though, because _of course_  he calls while she’s in the shower, and she doesn’t have his number in her phone, so she misses the whole thing entirely. Who listens to voicemail, right?

And it’s not like she’s actually _waiting_ for him to call. It’s just that as the hours pass and the retweet count on that picture of them from Jitters continues to climb, she starts to freak out a little. She and Oliver left things undecided, but it feels like the situation is rapidly spinning out of their control. TMZ already posted a poll with options for their portmanteau (Quoak, _really_??), and it’s only been twelve hours!

On the one hand, if they _do_  decide to fake-date, this picture is a near perfect first step; they would hardly have to do anything else to cement the idea. On the other hand, if they decide _not_ to do this, there’s enough chatter around them that it will still follow them around -- fan theories, fake gossip, wrong-headed stories alleging truly ridiculous reasons for why their totally non-existent relationship ended.

She... may be panicking a bit. Just a smidge. Because what seemed like a rather far-fetched option yesterday feels today like a runaway train -- it’s already reached the point where she wouldn’t be able to hack enough servers to kill the story.

Her text conversation with Diggle on this topic is long and full of exclamation points, until he finally tells her to come by the house and stops answering.

She knows Oliver will be there, and it’s probably irrational, but she dresses for battle -- tight, dark jeans and a sheer black top over a dark blue longline bra. She amps up her makeup, too, choosing a smokier eye than she’d normally go with midday, and a bright, masterfully applied coat of her trademark pink lipstick. Looking in the mirror, Felicity knows she looks good -- and not just _pretty_ , but kind of fierce.

So fierce, actually, that she takes a quick selfie to post on Instagram. She crops the photo so that it’s a little artsy, but she looks awesome, _and_  it will further the secondary discussion online about _Holy crap, is Felicity’s hair pink!?_  She posts it to her Instagram with a simple caption: _Game face_.

When she shows up at Dig and Lyla’s, Felicity parks her peppy mini Cooper behind Diggle’s Audi and beside what can only be Oliver Queen’s ridiculous, bright red Lamborghini. Seriously? She is _not_  going on any fake dates in that stupid thing.

You know, _if_  they decide to do this thing.

Whatever. Still, she feels jittery and uncertain, her hands tapping unsteady rhythms against the steering wheel as she psychs herself up for this conversation. About whether they’re going to fake date, and if so, all the details about all the fake dating. She takes a breath and heads for the door, nearly jumping out of her skin when she finds Oliver Queen hovering near their door like a weirdo.

“Felicity,” he greets her, stepping forward and holding up a Jitters coffee cup. “I brought you coffee.”

Reflexively, she accepts the offering -- because coffee. “Thank you.” She blinks at him.

Unlike yesterday at Jitters, he’s toned down his _A Movie Star Walks Among You_  thing -- he’s wearing jeans again, and he is wearing them _well_ , but he’s paired that with a soft, maroon henley. He looks incredible. The jerk. Felicity is distressed to learn that, as she gets to know him a little bit and he’s nowhere near the douchebag she remembers from that awful party, his attractiveness grows by leaps and bounds. It’s completely unfair.

“And hi,” she adds, feeling off-kilter. Because he just... brought her coffee. Like like some kind of normal person. It’s _weird_. But probably she should try to act normal, too. “So, I guess that picture made kind of a splash, huh?”

“Yeah,” he agrees, oddly dismissive of, you know, the _entire reason they’re here_. He takes a half-step closer, and why is he looking at her so intensely? “I called you earlier because--”

“You called me?” she interrupts, because _what_? She tugs her phone free from her back pocket and thumbs it on. “When did you--?” She sees the missed call from an unknown number. “Wait, this is you?” She holds the phone up so he can see the number.

“Yes,” he tells her, glancing briefly at the screen. “That’s me. Listen--”

“Oh.” She pulls the phone back to her, studying the number with a weird kind of swoop-y feeling in her stomach. Because she kind of expected them to formally exchange numbers as part of this sure-to-be-super-awkward negotiation inside -- you know, in the presence of their agents and all official-like, since this is a PR gambit. She didn’t expect Oliver Queen to just... call her. “Okay. I should probably save this.” She adds him to her contacts quickly, then lifts the phone and says, “Smile!”

Oliver does not smile. “Felicity.”

She snaps a picture anyway, and when she sets it to his contact picture, she frowns at the phone, then back up at him. “What’s wrong? You look--” She waves a hand in the general direction of his face-- “uncomfortable.”

“Listen,” Oliver says, and there’s a strange tension in the set of his shoulders. “I wanted to apologize for--”

“Felicity, Oliver!” Diggle greets, and she and Oliver spin towards him. Dig stands in the open doorway grinning at them. “Glad you could make it on such short notice. Come on in.”

Felicity beams at Dig, stepping closer to give him a one-armed hug, protectively holding her coffee to her chest. He laughs, tugging her closer and pulling her into the house. She goes willingly, taking sips from her coffee, while Oliver follows along quietly.

When they reach the living room, Lyla emerges from the far hallway with a smile. She’s wearing an uncharacteristically loose and flowy shirt, and Felicity grins pointedly at her midsection. Clearly, Lyla is still hiding the pregnancy from the general public. “Felicity!”

“Lyla!” Felicity squeals, abandoning Dig to wrap his awesome wife in a huge hug. “How are you feeling?”

“So very tired,” Lyla answers quietly. “But good.”

When Felicity steps back, she turns to find Dig watching them with a smile. Oliver stands a few steps away, looking strangely uncertain until Lyla urges him forward.

After a bit of chatter, they settle in the living room, Dig in his arm chair, Lyla on a small but comfortable looking wingback, and Oliver and Felicity on the couch. Which seemed a lot larger before his broad frame joined her on it. There’s not much space between them, and it makes her oddly jittery. Felicity puts down her Oliver-provided coffee and reaches for that turquoise pillow to drag it onto her lap. When she glances over at him, he’s gazing at the pillow with an oddly bereft look on his face. “Oh,” she says, loosening her grip on the pillow and offering it to him, “did you want--?”

“No, you’re fine,” he interrupts with a smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m fine.”

Felicity studies him for a moment. She can’t claim to know him very well, but unlike his more confrontational mood yesterday, today he seems a little... nervous, maybe? Which doesn’t make much sense to Felicity, but she knows anxiety is rarely logical, so she softens her tone and asks, “Are you?”

Oliver opens his mouth, closes it again, and then nods once. He resettles himself a bit on the couch, his movements tipping her a bit, too, before turning his gaze to Lyla. “So. Strategy?”

So much for easing into things, Felicity thinks.

Lyla and Dig exchange a look. “First,” Lyla answers, “we should talk about whether you two are comfortable going forward with this idea or not. All that’s out there right now is one suggestive picture and a bunch of speculation.”

Felicity hugs the pillow tighter. She’s been kicking this insane idea around nearly non-stop since their brief coffee date. Can she really do this? Can she fool people into thinking she’s in love with Oliver Queen? Can he act well enough to convince people that he loves _her_?

And even if they can do all of those things, _should_  they?

Reflexively, she looks to the man sitting beside her. He’s already watching her, one eyebrow quirked in wordless question. “What do you think?” he asks.

“What do _you_  think?” she lobs back.

He huffs. “I asked you first,” he points out, though he sounds more amused than frustrated. She shouldn’t find it charming that he’s being accommodating instead of aggravating today.

“I think...” Felicity trails off, glancing at Lyla, then Diggle, before refocusing on Oliver. If a single picture got them this much press, it’s clear there would be quite a bit of interest in a Felicity Smoak-Oliver Queen relationship. Maybe they could achieve their goals even more quickly than they’d planned -- a couple months, a few appearances together, some pictures on her Instagram feed, maybe a dinner or two, and then go their separate ways. She’s still not fully comfortable with this -- especially the lying -- but she takes a breath and says, “I think we should give it a shot.”

Oliver watches her for a moment, then starts to smile. “Yeah?” he asks, and underneath that obscene movie star charm and all the genetic blessings, he actually seems uncertain. Like he’d been expecting her to turn him down, but hoping she wouldn’t.

She grins back at him. “Yeah.” She tries really hard to ignore the part where this feels like something more personal than a business agreement.

“Well, okay,” Diggle says, drawing their attention from each other. When Felicity looks over at her agent, he’s watching them with the barest hint of a smirk. “We should talk strategy, then -- when to confirm, what should be your first official outing together, basic ground rules.”

“Confirm?” Oliver asks, sounding honestly bewildered. “People actually release statements or confirm relationships to the press? _Why_?”

“Well, when the relationships last more than a day or two...” Felicity answers dryly, choking on her laugh when he shoots her a glare. She swallows the rest of her comment, refocusing on the issue at hand. “We don’t _have_  to confirm anything.”

“I don’t think we should,” Lyla muses. “Not yet, anyway. Let it simmer, maybe be seen together somewhere here in Starling, and then do a red carpet together -- formal attire, holding hands, the whole thing.”

“I agree,” Diggle says. “How do you feel about the MTV Movie Awards? Felicity had _Crimson Roses_  on the soundtrack for that comic book movie two years back -- they’d probably love you to attend,” he tells Felicity.

She shrugs. The suggestion makes sense -- it’s her industry, and a lot of her fans will be watching. An appearance there -- particularly an appearance linked to someone like Oliver, who has significant star power in other demographics -- would hopefully curry some favor for her in advance of her next album. She needs the radio stations and she needs MTV. So, yeah -- their awards shows aren’t her favorite, but she understands the game.

Oliver, though, simply stares at Diggle. “The MTV Awards?” He turns his disbelief to Lyla. “Are you kidding me?”

“You and Ray Palmer won best fight last year,” Lyla reminds him.

He waves a dismissive hand in the air. “Right, and Ray went to accept it. I haven’t been to the MTV awards in...” he trails off, struggling for recall, and Felicity is starting to feel a little miffed. Like, sure, okay, the MTV Movie Awards aren’t the Academy Awards, but has he _seen_ the kinds of movies he’s made? He shouldn’t be so jaded about the teenage demographic -- they eat up all of his big explosions/big car chases/big fight scenes movies.

“They want you to present this year,” Lyla tells him. “With Ray Palmer. _And_  it’s next weekend, which is great timing.”

Oliver clenches his jaw, arms crossed stubbornly. “I hate Ray Palmer.”

Lyla gives him her best exasperated face. “I don’t care.”

“Why do you hate Ray Palmer?” Felicity wonders, genuinely puzzled. She’d met him once at a party, and he’d kind of flirted with her, but then seemingly got sidetracked explaining in way too much detail how the stunt pulley worked for some train-related fight scene he’d done. “He seems nice. And handsome. Like a Disney prince or something.”

Oliver flashes her a withering look. “He’s an idiot.”

“Sorry,” she mutters grumpily, “geez.”

Oliver closes his eyes for a moment and shakes his head minutely, then turns back to her. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped at you. He just… gets on my nerves. That shoot was a nightmare.”

“It’s okay,” Felicity tells him, even though it kind of isn’t. She kicks off her shoes and draws her knees up, snuggling the bright blue pillow a little closer and studying the man beside her. He’s too grumpy for her tastes, and he is _definitely_  a little too impressed with his own IMDB credits. Then again, she doesn’t have to _actually_ like him; she just needs to make heart-eyes at him in public. He’s _so handsome_  when he keeps his mouth shut -- maybe gazing adoringly at him in public won’t be so hard.

Diggle clears his throat. “We should let the press speculate for a bit,” he suggest. “No confirmation, then you two walk the MTV red carpet together next Sunday.”

Oliver still seems displeased with the idea. “You know,” he complains to Lyla, “when I hired you to help me revamp my career path, I was hoping for something a little more prestigious than the MTV movie awards.”

Felicity forgets herself for a moment and elbows him sharply in the ribs for being rude.

“Ow!” he says, turning wide eyes to her.

“Don’t be a jerk,” she tells him, ignoring the flush in her cheeks because what is she _doing_  elbowing him like she knows him?

“It’s _MTV_ ,” he counters, “and I’m a grown-ass man.”

“Then maybe _act_  like one,” she snaps back. “Fans are fans, regardless of how old they are, or what awards show they like. You shouldn’t sneer at them.”

Oliver seems taken aback by her criticism, staring at her with wide eyes and raised eyebrows. “I wasn’t-- I didn’t--” He presses his lips together for a moment. “I just meant that I’ve been doing the kinds of projects that earn me awards for things like best fight,” he explains quietly. “And I want to do more than that.”

“I’ve been working for you for less than six months, Oliver,” Lyla interjects. Her voice is calm, but Felicity knows her well enough to recognize that she is Not Happy right now. “I know you’re frustrated, but you need to build on what you’ve already got going for you if this is going to work.”

There’s a long moment where Oliver and Lyla stare at each other, neither backing down. Then Oliver sighs. “You’re right. Whatever Felicity wants is fine.” He drops his head back to rest against the top of the couch, then rolls it to the side to catch her gaze.

Felicity reaches over and pats his leg in a totally platonic, comforting kind of way. “It’ll be fine,” she tells him. “We can just hold hands on the red carpet and skip the interviews.”

Diggle cuts in. “We need to discuss PDA,” he says, with a pointed look at where her hand is _still lying on Oliver’s thigh_ , and Felicity has to suck in her breath on an embarrassed laugh as she snatches her hand back. Oliver quirks an eyebrow at her, and she resolutely looks away, hugging the pillow to her chest like a shield.

“PDA?” she prompts Diggle, and then flushes bright red, because never would she have imagined having a frank discussion with _John Diggle_  about just where and when and how Oliver Queen will put his hands on her. “Oh, my God,” she whispers, mortified.

Beside her, Oliver huffs a laugh and she only barely resists elbowing him again.

“All of this strategizing isn’t going to matter if you two don’t sell it,” Dig points out. “You can’t start with a picture like _that_ \--” His suggestive tone makes Felicity blush-- “and then be like cardboard cutouts when you get in front of the press.”

Felicity has no idea how to respond to that, but Oliver answers promptly, “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.”

Then he does that thing where his gaze catches hers and they share this oddly intense eye contact for a long moment. She barely notices they’re doing it again until Lyla mutters, “Goodlord.”

And, yeah, as much as Felicity is loath to agree with Oliver on this, the man has got a point. “Yeah, uh, I don’t think chemistry is going to be an issue.” They’ve all seen that stupid Jitters picture, after all. For whatever reason, this tension between her and Oliver reads as _passion_.

Diggle’s eyebrows go up at her uncharacteristic brevity, but she can’t risk her mouth running away from her right now. She doesn’t know how she would ever be able to walk back accidentally admitting that not only does she find Oliver wildly attractive, but also that she wouldn’t mind practicing their PDA moves in a closet somewhere. Just to iron all the kinks out.

She presses her lips together desperately.

“Chemistry?” Oliver echos, and when she looks over at him, he just stares back at her smugly, like he knows exactly what she’s thinking.

Damn the man. She squints at him irritably.

“I think we all agree you two have chemistry, and that it reads well on camera,” Lyla observes, and if Felicity didn’t know her so well, she would’ve missed the dry humor. “But I think you should consider what your limits are. Felicity, are you comfortable holding hands with Oliver? Hugging him in public? Can he drape his arm over your shoulder, or put it around your waist?”

Felicity can feel her cheeks flush at the thought of leaning into that ridiculously hard body of his. “Of course,” she answers primly.

Oliver shifts beside her, knocking her shoulder with his. “You can wrap your arms around me whenever you’d like.” He’s doing that slightly-arched-eyebrow thing, and staring at her with those sparkling blue eyes, and he is just entirely too much. Also, unlike her, he seems perfectly at ease with this awkward conversation.

Right up until Diggle asks, “What about kissing?"

Oliver stiffens, and Felicity curls in on herself some. Because, great, awesome, the thought of fake-kissing her makes him go all tense and weird. This fake relationship is doing wonders for her self-confidence. She looks away, reaching for her coffee and taking a sip and, oh, hey, look at that -- she can’t possibly talk and drink at the same time. She nurses her coffee, staring back at Diggle and Lyla stubbornly.

Lyla sighs. “This won’t get  _less_  awkward if you don’t talk about it.”

“Kissing’s fine,” Oliver mutters, crossing his arms a little more tightly. And Felicity absolutely does _not_  notice that it does really great things for his biceps. Nope.

And she certainly doesn’t get a swirly feeling of excitement in her chest at the thought of kissing him, even for show. Definitely that’s not a thing that happens. And she’s certainly not wondering what his beard will feel like. _Would_  feel like. You know, _if_  they happen to have to kiss. Which is just like a ho-hum possibility. A totally uninteresting thing that could happen for business reasons.

“No one’s saying you’ll need to kiss on cue,” Lyla points out. “Just that it might be strange if there are never any pictures of you kissing. Felicity,” she says, “that might be something for your Instagram instead of an on-demand thing when you’re doing a step-and-repeat together.”

“Great,” Felicity manages. Because, yeah, she’ll just invite Oliver to come over for a _let’s kiss in a dozen selfies until we find one we can post to reinforce the idea of our totally fake relationship_ party. Aces. She grabs for her coffee and takes a big, fortifying sip. Which would be more effective it were alcohol, but whatever. Caffeine is never a bad idea.

“While we’re on the subject,” Diggle says slowly. “We should talk about sex.”

Felicity nearly chokes on her coffee, coughing for a moment before she splutters, “We should _not_  talk about sex.”

“I’m assuming this arrangement excludes sex,” Lyla says. And _how_  can she sound so calm talking about this? “But we should be very clear on the topic so there are no unfortunate misunderstandings later. So let’s just agree on that and move on.”

“Really?” Oliver says, and he sounds offended; when Felicity looks over at him, he’s doing that glowering thing, and _how_  is one human that attractive? Even when he’s being kind of a jerk? Honestly. “You really want to put _no sex_  in the contract?” He shakes his head, looking back and forth between Lyla and Diggle.

Felicity gulps in some air. “Well, first,” she says, speaking faster than she really should be, because caffeine, “I don’t understand your protest unless you’re _expecting_  sex, which,” she continues, more loudly to drown out Oliver’s stuttering protest, “will _not_  be happening. You and me are fake, remember? We’re a PR fantasy. And not,” she continues with a wave of her hand, “like a _fantasy_  fantasy, just -- You know what I mean. There’s nothing here--” She flails her hand in the space between them-- “so there’s obviously not going to be any sex. Second, there’s not an _actual contract_. You get that, right?”

And, yes, she might be falling back on the bitchiness, but he really _can_  be kind of obnoxious, and something about it just pushes all of her buttons.

But Oliver doesn’t seem to care about her attitude shift. He turns to Lyla with a frown. “Wait. We’re not signing a contract? You’re the one who’s been on my ass about confidentiality clauses and _always get it in writing_.” He actually makes air quotes, and it is by far the dorkiest thing she’s seen him do yet, but it somehow makes him seem more human and relatable and, yes, _more_  attractive.

Which really shouldn’t be possible.

Lyla, though, seems utterly immune to his charms. In fact, as she slowly folds her hands together, Felicity’s pretty sure Lyla’s gathering the remnants of her patience to deal with her exasperating client. “In almost all circumstances,” Lyla answers slowly, “I want you protected by contractual confidentiality. But the point of a contract is to allow the parties to prove the agreed-upon terms to a judge when it blows up. Do you _really_  think a PR relationship is a thing you’re going to want to litigate if something goes wrong?”

Felicity buries her face in her hand at the very idea -- the headlines _alone_  would end both of their careers. “This is insane,” she moans. “This conversation is _insane_.”

How is it that she can _feel_ Oliver glaring at her? It’s like having a hot lamp aimed directly at the side of her face. And really, she’s not the one who brought this up. He can turn his stink-eye right around and direct it at Diggle.

“Fine,” Oliver says, sounding like he’s talking through gritted teeth. “No actual contract. No sex. And I’m going to try really hard not to resent the fact that you felt I needed to stipulate that.”

“We’re just trying to look out for everyone’s best interest,” Diggle replies evenly, but it’s clear by his tone that he means he’s looking out for _Felicity_ . And to her great surprise, she actually starts to feel a little annoyed on Oliver’s behalf. Setting aside that she’s sitting right here and can certainly make her own decision about whether she wants sex with Oliver, it _is_ a little insulting, what John’s implying.

She’s heard a lot of unflattering things about Oliver in the last few years, but she’s never heard anything that indicated he couldn’t take no for an answer.

“John,” she interjects, letting some of her irritation bleed into her voice, “I don’t need you to do that. I think you owe Oliver an apology.”

Three sets of eyes turn on her with shock, but it’s still Oliver’s that she feels the most. In the silence that follows (while she assumes Diggle is weighing the merits of an apology), she risks a look at Oliver.

He's unabashedly watching her. She knows she surprised him (she surprised herself, actually), but there's something else, something warm in his gaze that makes her linger on his face. Is it gratitude? Admiration? Whatever it is, it's making her heart race. And those swirly feelings in her chest are definitely back.

She really doesn't want to examine what any of that means, so she turns back to Diggle, raising her eyebrows at him pointedly.

Diggle sighs. “I'm sorry,” he says simply. He still looks a little disgruntled, but never let it be said that he won’t own up to his mistakes. John Diggle is a good man, and the fact that he is willing to apologize when he crosses a line is one of her favorite things about him.

Oliver has relaxed considerably in the last few moments, and she's not going to read anything into how he shifts slightly into her personal space, one solid thigh pressing into her foot where it rests on the couch cushion. He’s still watching Diggle, though, and Felicity is caught a little off-guard when Oliver arches an expectant eyebrow at Dig.

“For?” Oliver prompts.

Felicity lifts her eyes to the ceiling briefly. _Why? Why_ does he insist on pushing his luck? Is he _trying_ to be a pain in the ass? Lyla is pressing her lips together, and Felicity is frankly perplexed that she now seems to be finding Oliver's behavior funny.

Diggle’s eyes narrow dangerously, and Felicity, who has _definitely_  been on the receiving end of that particular look from him before, holds her breath.

“For assuming the worst of you, especially since we've already settled this,” Diggle replies, with what Felicity thinks is an impressive amount of restraint.

But-- Wait, what? They've _already settled_ that she and Oliver won't be sleeping together? _When_? And what kind of patriarchal bullsh--

“Let’s move on,” Lyla repeats, apparently reading danger in Felicity’s expression.

“I think that's a good idea,” Diggle agrees.

“I bet you do,” Felicity mutters at Diggle, who is obviously avoiding looking her in the eye. There is a fine line between brotherly protectiveness and overbearing paternalism, and she is _so_ going to be pointing that out later.

Gently, because she loves Diggle, and loves that he genuinely cares about her. But there will be words. Probably quite a lot of them, since she’s on espresso shot number four for the day. Felicity takes a long, calming sip of her latte, ignoring both of the annoying men in the room. She focuses on Lyla instead, who is clearly waiting for her agreement before moving on. Felicity nods.

“What’s next,” Oliver asks amiably, looking smugly pleased with the turn of events. The insufferable idiot, Felicity thinks, with a surprising amount of fondness.

“Well,” Lyla says, “I just want to remind you that we are trying to rehabilitate your image.”

Oliver frowns, and the satisfaction drains from him. “I’m aware.”

“And while there will be no sex with Felicity,” Lyla continues, ignoring the undignified squeak from Felicity and the emphatic nod from Dig, “I want to be very clear that you cannot be seen ‘cheating’ on your loving girlfriend.”

Felicity feels Oliver stiffen beside her, but can’t bring herself to look over at him. _Frak_. Oliver is agreeing to fake date her and not have sex for months and months?

“Which means no other women while this is still going on,” Lyla explains. “I don’t want anyone selling their story about their one night with Ollie Queen and--”

“I got it,” Oliver interrupts, his words clipped and angry. “That won’t be a problem.”

This time, Felicity can’t resist turning to him, and she knows the second he glances at her that she’s made a huge mistake. Diggle has told her again and again that while her _actual_  poker face is great, her attempts to mask her emotions during regular human interaction is absolutely terrible. Which means she’s gaping at Oliver in shock.

And from the way his expression shutters, he clearly thinks she’s stunned by the very idea of him not sleeping around -- like it’s too much for her to believe. She knows what his reputation is -- or has been. She knows exactly what he's trying to move past by doing this insane thing with her. And she's just inadvertently given him the impression that she believes the stories she's read about the man he used to be more than the man sitting inches away from her. She's _hurt_ him -- his shoulders are rigid with tension, and he looks away from her immediately. “Let’s move on,” he says, his voice hard.

There’s a long, horrible, awkward silence. Oliver stares resolutely at the floor, Diggle and Lyla give Felicity different versions of _fix this_  faces, and Felicity chews on her lip and tries to figure out how to rewind the last thirty seconds so she can try that again.

“Hey,” Felicity says, reaching over to lay a hand on his bicep which is, yeah, all kinds of clenched and taut. She squeezes gently. “That never occurred to me,” she tells him. “I didn’t think that through -- that you wouldn’t be able to--” She stumbles a bit over her words-- “ _date_  while we’re doing this.”

Oliver is still tense, but he’s at least holding her gaze with no outright hostility aimed her way. “Yeah,” he says, clearly waiting for her to elaborate.

“I didn’t-- I don’t want to,” she shrugs, lifting one helpless hand in search of the right word, “inconvenience you. Or get in the way of anything.”

He turns towards her a bit. “You’re not-- There’s not--” He huffs a frustrated breath. “It’s fine.”

He seems sincere, but Felicity can’t quite believe he’s okay with this. “Fine?” she echoes. “Are you sure? Because, Oliver, we don’t have to do this if you--”

“I’m sure,” he interrupts. “I’m not really,” he pauses minutely, “dating.”

“Me, neither,” she answers quietly, and to her surprise, his expression softens, and he shifts to cover her hand with his where it’s resting against his arm. His palm is big and warm and surprisingly comforting, and he lets his thumb move in these small, soothing little arcs against her skin.

“I don’t want you to worry about me. It’s going to be fine, and I would never cheat--” He stops with a grimace. Because this isn’t real, so he wouldn’t really be cheating. But she understands his point.

“Fake-cheat?” she offers with a slightly sardonic smile.

He huffs a laugh, like she surprised it out of him. “Right,” he says, his amusement fading as he returns her gaze. There’s a strange weight to the moment, a solemnity that throws Felicity off balance. “I wouldn’t do that to you,” Oliver tells her. “I won’t embarrass you, Felicity.”

They’re sitting very close to each other, and his eyes are just _unfairly_  blue and quite mesmerizing. She has no idea how long they stay like that, just looking at each other, before Diggle claps his hands together and startles them both.

“Okay!” Dig says, and he’s practically smirking at them, “Just a few more pieces of business.”

Felicity realizes she’s _still_  touching Oliver, and withdraws her hand. Again. “Right. Okay. What else?”

Thankfully, the rest of the conversation is much less awkward than the talk about sex and kissing and how Oliver can’t date hot models while he’s pretend-dating her, which means he’ll be celibate and she really shouldn’t know that about him? She shouldn’t be thinking about his sex life at all.

She _definitely_  shouldn’t be thinking about that blind item she read that was quite obviously about him. And his talents.

Nope. Not thinking anything sex-related about Oliver Queen.

Instead, Felicity tries very hard to focus on Diggle’s final items, but they are all boring -- dull details about who will book the travel arrangements for the MTV awards (Lyla), what stylist they’ll use (Sara, obviously), which after parties they would attend, if any (Oliver strongly objects to the idea of going to any, and Felicity tries hard not to take his unwillingness to spend additional time with her personally).  
  
By the time they wrap up the conversation, Felicity is _totally_ not thinking about the sex-with-Oliver conversation anymore. And she's _absolutely_ not wondering just how and when she and Oliver will kiss.   
  
You know, for show. To sell the story. Business arrangements.   
  
When Lyla smiles and says, "Great, then. I think we have all we need to get started. You two still need to agree on your meet-cute story, but you can do that on your own."   
  
"We're not calling it that," Oliver objects, but he jumps to his feet, clearly relieved to put this long, strange negotiation behind him. Diggle, Lyla, and Felicity follow suit, which leaves them standing in an awkward circle around the coffee table.   
  
Felicity is not expecting Oliver to turn to her with a hesitant smile and say, “I’ll walk you out.” When she simply stares at him, his cheeks flush a bit, and he adds, "We can decide on a time for our next date. Meeting. Our next meeting."   
  
“Oh.” Felicity blinks. "You can just text me later for that," she answers. "I mean, thanks, but I need to talk to Dig. Music stuff,” she adds, but it doesn’t sound particularly convincing even to her. “He owes me notes on a demo. New sound. Very exciting.” She can feel the words piling up, ready to come tumbling out in a torrent of sentence fragments, until Diggle rests a hand on her shoulder. She snaps her mouth shut.   
  
"Okay," Oliver says, and if Felicity didn't know better, she'd think he sounded a little crestfallen. "Then I guess I'll... just be going." He wipes his palms on his jeans and turns to their hosts. "Lyla, Dig, thanks." He shakes their hands, then turns to Felicity.   
  
They watch each other for a moment, and then Oliver steps forward, right into her personal space, and pulls her into a hug. She squeaks in surprise, before wrapping a tentative arm around his, wow, _very_ solid torso. As he pulls away, he brushes a kiss to her cheek, then steps back. "I'll call you," he tells her, then turns to the door.   
  
"Yeah," Felicity answers belatedly, her voice all weird and breathy. "Bye, Oliver."   
  
When she turns back to Dig and Lyla, she find two judgey-yet-also-somehow-smirk-y faces staring back at her. Felicity crosses her arms defensively. "I thought that went pretty well, all things considered."   
  
Lyla pats her husband on the arm. "I'll let you take the debrief on this," she says, turning towards the kitchen. "Good luck," she adds in a teasing little sing-song.   
  
Felicity turns back to Diggle, who’s watching her with a super-judgmental eyebrow arch. She frowns at him. “What?”

“Oh, Felicity,” Dig says, throwing his arm around her shoulders and ushering her towards the small multimedia room towards the back of the house. “We have so much to talk about.”

She tilts her head, letting herself be pulled down the hallway. “About the demo?” she asks hopefully.

But Diggle is already shaking his head in amusement. “We’ll get to that, too,” he promises, letting her go as she moves across the small music room to the bank of speakers. “But first, we’re gonna talk about Oliver Queen.”

Felicity groans and drops into her seat.

END CHAPTER FIVE


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays (or end of the year) from me and Macha!

 

Oliver arrives at Felicity’s building on time, which is probably a first for him. But he’s been nervous for two days, and anxious for the opportunity to explain himself to her -- to apologize. The problem is, he sucks at apologizing. He lived way too much of his life feeling like things were owed to him, and justifying his own behavior without bothering to apologize for much of anything.

But this tentative friendship with Felicity, it feels important. And he actually _wants_ to apologize, and to set things right. It’s just that now that the moment has arrived, his damn hands are shaking he’s so out of his element.

It doesn’t help that Felicity has invited him over for what she kept referring to as an Instagram session. When he finally got her to explain, he learned they’re going to take a few pictures for her to post as further proof of their relationship. Pictures of them together, acting like they’re _together_. 

Except that if his attempt to apologize goes badly, he’s pretty sure she’s going to kick him out and probably call the whole thing off.

Possibly in the form of a public announcement of their breakup.

No pressure.

When he walks into the building, the guard at the desk recognizes him, greeting him by name and and directing him to the elevators. Oliver nods his thanks, but the guard is already picking up the phone to call Felicity and let her know he’s on his way up. Her penthouse is on the eighteenth floor, and when he steps off the elevator, the door to her place is ajar. He can hear music inside -- a heavy, slow beat with soft lyrics, though the volume is too low for him to confirm whether it’s one of Felicity’s.

He pauses on the doorstep and knocks. “Felicity?”

She appears quickly, smiling as she pulls the door open farther. “Oliver, hi. Come in.” 

He steps across the threshold and pauses, waiting for her to close the door and then lead him inside. She’s barefoot, wearing bright purple yoga pants (that do amazing things for her legs and cling to that perfect ass of hers) and a gauzy black tank top over a purple bra. It’s a casual look that shouldn’t be sexy, but somehow is. Her lavender hair is down and wavy, and he’s so distracted by her that he barely notices her loft.

“So, yeah,” Felicity says, “this is my place. Sorry for the mess.”

Oliver blinks. “It’s lovely,” he tells her, and since when is he the kind of guy who uses the word _lovely_? The description fits, somehow -- the walls are brightly colored, and the furniture is a strangely cohesive collection of blues and greens. There are an insane number of iPads and tablets sitting on the coffee table, and a flawlessly installed high-end sound system and TV set against the far wall. The floor-to-ceiling windows let in a ton of light, and the entire brightness of the space somehow echoes the cheerfulness of Felicity. 

“Can I get you anything?” she asks, twisting her hands together as she watches him.

“I’m fine,” he assures her. “But before we get started, Felicity, I wanted to apologize.”

That leaves her puzzled. She opens her mouth, then closes it again, brow furrowing. She tilts her head in confusion. “Apologize?” she echoes. “For what?”

He shifts his weight, trying to figure out the best way to say this. “I didn’t know,” he begins slowly. “About-- About Cooper Seldon. I didn’t... _realize_ , and I’m sorry.”

Pausing, Oliver waits for a reaction, but Felicity has gone utterly still, eyes wide and slightly unfocused. He’s not even sure she’s breathing.

He takes a step closer. “Felicity?”

She flinches. “What?”

“I’m sorry about Cooper,” he repeats, his tone uncertain now, because this isn’t going at all how he expected. Not that he’d known exactly what to expect, but he’d pictured sadness, maybe tears, possibly anger. Not this strange stillness. “And I’m sorry if any of this,” he gestures between them, “is more difficult for you because of--” He fumbles-- “because of what happened.”

She’s watching him closely now, and the intensity of her attention is a little overwhelming. “You didn’t know,” she repeats, like she’s trying to make sense of what he’s said.

Oliver winces. It sounds awful, but he hasn’t got anything better because it’s the truth. He didn’t know because he’d never paid attention -- not to Felicity, and not to Cooper or his band. He’d been too wrapped up in his own ego, and then in his own family’s problems to really pay attention to anyone else. But Felicity doesn’t deserve to hear something so callous, and he can’t find another way to explain, so he just says, “I didn’t. I-- I’m sorry, I didn’t know he was-- that you were--” He blows out a frustrated breath. “I didn’t know.”

She stares at him for a couple more beats, silent and unmoving, and then she turns on her heel. “I need a drink.”

Oliver swallows down his immediate response -- Felicity is not Thea, and he has no reason to believe she’s self-medicating. “Okay,” he answers quietly.

She moves into the kitchen, which is partially blocked by a half-wall topped by a black granite breakfast bar. She’s out of sight, but he can hear her rifling through the refrigerator. There’s a ridiculous ceramic frog sitting on the countertop, and he lets himself be distracted wondering why she’d chosen it. Though its bright quirkiness seems like something Felicity would be drawn to, so maybe that’s an easy question to answer. 

When she reappears, she’s clutching a raspberry soda in her hand, and her expression is fixed into an imitation of benign disinterest. “It’s fine,” she tells him, moving past him to the oversized cobalt blue couch. “You didn’t know him, or me, so there’s no reason you should’ve known about--” She stops, takes a long swig of soda. “About the rest of it. So,” she says, waving him over to the couch, “we should talk about what to Instagram.”

It’s an invitation to join her, but every single thing about her body language is demanding space. She’s curled up against the arm of the couch, her feet tucked under her, and one arm holding a pillow across her lap. She’s stiff and wooden and nothing like the vibrant woman Oliver’s gotten to know -- at least a little -- over the past week.

When he doesn’t move, she glances back at him. “Oliver?” she prompts.

Gingerly, he moves to the couch and settles into the other corner, leaving an entire cushion’s worth of space between them. “Are we okay?” he asks. “I didn’t mean to make things worse.”

“You didn’t,” she objects, waving off his point with a shrug and an inauthentic smile. “It’s fine. We’re fine.” She points at herself with one thumb. “ _I’m_ fine.” Then she grabs hold of the pillow again.

Oliver is not the most observant man in the world, but it’s clear as day that she is _not_ fine. His apology was supposed to ease things between them, but instead it destabilized her somehow. “Felicity--”

“Don’t,” she interrupts, her voice low and shaky. Her eyes are shiny with unshed tears when she meets his gaze. “Just-- Don’t.”

And he knows he’s pushing her, pushing his luck by not letting it go immediately, but--something inside him won’t let him. Maybe it’s Thea’s voice in his head telling him Felicity’s had a rough year, or maybe it’s his own memories of how he felt after Thea’s overdose, when the days blurred together with fear and grief. All he remembers about those days is wishing desperately he had someone outside to talk to about all of it. 

“I can let this go if you want me to, I just... if there’s anyone who’ll maybe understand how you feel, it’s me. My sister...” It’s still hard for him to say, even now when she’s doing better, so he gets why Felicity might not want to talk about it. “I’m sure you read things about Thea when you did your research on me.”

Her mask slips just a little bit to show chagrin, which isn’t what he wants, so he holds up a hand. “It’s fine, really. I just wanted you to know that I’m here. Not just as your fake boyfriend, but as someone you can talk to, if you want. There’s no reason we can’t be friends,” he says, smiling as he echoes Thea’s words.

“Thank you, but I don’t want to,” Felicity says in an even voice, and it’s not unkind, but a wall has definitely come down. “Talk about it, that is.”

And that’s really that. He has to respect it, despite the strange disappointment he feels at her rejection. “We don’t have to do this right now if you don’t want to,” Oliver offers. He gestures vaguely towards the door. “I can come back some other time, or--”

“No, we need to do this,” Felicity interrupts stubbornly. “The MTV thing is in four days, and we need to be able to be convincing together. Or convincingly together.” She lets out a slow, even breath and when she looks back at him, she doesn’t seem quite as rattled. Still, there’s a strange tension in the air between them.

“Are you sure?” He tilts his head a little to catch her gaze.

She watches him for a moment, and this time when she smiles, it’s small but genuine. “I’m sure. And I’m open to the friend thing, just... maybe later.”

“Okay,” he agrees, and he finds himself smiling back at her, relieved and maybe even a bit thankful that Felicity is at least willing to consider being his friend. The past year has taught him some hard truths about the kinds of friends he’s made over the years in Hollywood, and he’s been fairly isolated since moving back to Star City. The prospect of being friends with Felicity is surprisingly attractive to him. “So what are we doing for Instagram?”

“Making out,” Felicity answers promptly. Then she starts to shake her head. “Wait, no. Not-- Not _making out_ , like we’re just gonna curl up on my couch and go at it.” She flushes and brings the pillow up to bop herself in the forehead, muttering, “ _Worst_ way to say things.” 

“Felicity?”

But then she’s up and moving, pausing only to swipe her phone from the table before heading over towards the large windows. “Lighting’s better over here,” she tells him, beckoning him over.

He hesitates, but when she huffs an annoyed sigh, he pushes himself to his feet and moves around the overstuffed armchair to join her by the window. Except that he leaves several careful feet of space between them.

Felicity gives him a baleful look, then closes her eyes and shakes out her arms like she’s warming up to tag in to a volleyball match. 

“What are you doing?” he asks, trying to hold back his amused smile. She is the most perplexing mix of cute and sexy and unpredictable. It’s utterly charming.

“We’re supposed to be relaxed with each other,” she points out, as if this is something so obvious that he should understand the point of her calisthenics without her having to explain it to him, “so I’m making myself relax.”

“I’m pretty sure it doesn’t work that way,” Oliver counters, and he can’t quite control the smile anymore.

She glares at him in a truly adorable fashion. “Are you going to be this difficult the whole time?”

“I’m not being difficult,” he protests, lifting his hands in surrender. “What do you want me to do?”

It’s his turn to tense up when Felicity marches right into his personal space, spins around so her back is to him, and kind of... _leans_ on him a little bit. He figures it out when she lifts her phone up to frame a selfie, but before he can adjust she tips her head back and looks up at him. “Ugh, you’re too tall.”

“You’re too short,” he counters, still standing there with his hands dangling awkwardly at his sides while her warm shoulder presses against his torso. Her eyes are beautiful up close, and there’s a pleasing note of something citrusy in the air around her. He wonders whether it’s her hair product or maybe perfume. 

“Why are you being all weird?” Felicity grouses, reaching for his hand and tugging it around her midsection. "Just…” she pauses, wriggling a little closer to him and pressing his hand against her stomach. “Touch me like you would touch me if we were really dating."

Oliver flattens his hand against her abdomen, and this gauzy little tank top is not much of a barrier between his palm and her warm skin, and he will not wonder whether her stomach is as soft as her hands are. "I don't plan how I touch women, Felicity,” he points out, while making very certain not to shift his hand lower, or rub his thumb against the fabric of her shirt. “I just touch them." 

"Well, you can't just touch me,” she shoots back, pausing to smile up at her phone as she clicks a picture, “so you'd better make a plan so that--" 

"So that you can approve it?" he guesses while she’s distracted by the picture she’s taken.

"Yes!" She tilts the phone up so he can see the picture on the screen. It’s... not great. Her smile is forced, he’s looking down at her with a frown, and most of his forehead is out of frame. 

“Hey, Annie Leibovitz,” he teases, reaching for her phone, “why don’t you let me-- _Ouch_!” Her desperate little slap of his hand didn’t really hurt, but he wasn’t expecting it. “What are you doing?”

“What are _you_ doing?” she shoots right back, turning to square off. “No touching my electronics!”

He huffs out a breath. “I was going to take the picture, and get us both in frame.”

“Oh.” She tips her head as she ponders that. “Okay. Sure. That’s a good idea.” She’s still reluctant as she hands her phone over. “Just-- Just be careful.”

“With your phone?” 

“It’s a carefully calibrated instrument, okay? I fine-tuned it to my specifications.” Off of his skeptical look, she shrugs and says, “I’m good with electronics.”

“Huh,” he says, glancing down at the phone in his hand. “Okay. Now c’mere.” He reaches for her arm, tugging her closer and urging her to turn back around. When she’s standing in front of him, he lifts the phone up and loops his free arm around her shoulders, laying his forearm against her collarbones. 

She makes a strange squeaking sound and reaches up with both hands to touch his arm. Oliver leans in a bit closer, pressing his chin to her temple. “Smile,” he murmurs, and gives his best happy-neutral look to the lens before snapping a few pictures.

He hands her back the phone and she shrugs out of his grasp, her attention wholly focused on the screen as she flips through the pictures he’d taken. They’re decent from what he can see, particularly the last one, where she’d tilted her head into him and grinned.

“Not bad,” she says, pleased. “I’ll just go change my shirt so that we can take some more.”

“Change your shirt? Why?”

She looks at him like he’s being particularly dense, and he supposes he is. “So that it looks like we took these photos on different days? So it doesn’t seem weird?” When he raises his eyebrows, she rolls her eyes. “Weird _er._ So it doesn’t seem like we took them all at once.”

He shakes his head. “But we _are_ taking them all at once.”

“Yes, but no one else needs to know that,” she explains patiently. “Obviously, I’ll scramble all the metadata.”

He blinks. “What?”

“You know, geolocation, date- and time-stamp,” she rattles off. “Anything that could help the stalker-y types out there goes right into the trash.” She tips her head. “You know, metaphorically. The _digital_ trash.”

Oliver only mostly follows that, so he nods. “Right.”

She grins. “You have no idea what I’m talking about.”

He looks down at his button up, and then back up at her. “Not really, no.”

Felicity smirks. “That’s okay. I’ll handle all the computer-y stuff, you can just take your shirt off,” she says, and then cringes.

And he’s returning the smirk on instinct, feeling a little bit back on more even footing. He can’t help himself, he’s just getting really fond of the way she blushes when she’s flustered. “Felicity, you don’t have to come up with excuses to see me shirtless. All you have to do is ask.”

It’s clear he’s joking, but she flushes gorgeously anyway, just as he’d hoped. “Your _overshirt_. You can wear the t-shirt underneath.” Then her eyes narrow at him, and he decides he likes that too. “You knew full well what I meant.”

He shrugs smugly. “Always good to clarify.”

She huffs, then turns her back to him and disappears into the part of the loft he has yet to see. He allows himself a quick grin, partially at her reaction and partially because the atmosphere around them is so much lighter, then strips down to his simple white undershirt.

Felicity’s back within minutes, wearing a deeply v-necked cotton tee in dark green, which sets off her purple hair brilliantly. Not to mention her chest, but Oliver pretends he doesn’t notice that.

“Right, now we’re kissing,” Felicity says nonchalantly. Too nonchalantly.

“O-kay,” Oliver says, and although he'd known it was coming, the collar of his t-shirt suddenly feels a little too tight. 

He moves closer, and there goes the lightness between them that he'd worked so hard for; he’s pretty sure his damn palms are sweating.

This is fine. He can do this. He’s been told he’s a _great_ kisser. Usually by intoxicated women whose names he can't remember, but still. Oliver has spent years perfecting just how to lean in, just where to place his hands, just how to smile for maximum impact. He’s supposed to be good at this.

“You know, there are ways to kiss that don't involve actual kissing,” he hears himself say. Like the coward he is.

Felicity frowns. “Huh?”

“Like this,” he says, and bends down before she has a chance to think about it and retreat. He presses his lips to her temple, and lingers unintentionally as his nose brushes her soft hair and her scent wafts over him again. It's a completely chaste kiss, but his pulse doesn't seem to recognize that.

When he pulls back, her head is tilted toward him, and her eyes are half-closed. His stomach does a long, slow, unexpected barrel roll.

Then she blinks. “Yeah, that's-- that’s not terrible.”

“Thanks,” he manages. He's not even joking. He's genuinely glad she didn't hate it. What the hell is he doing?

“I'm okay with that, it’s a good option for the red carpet,” she says. “But we should probably get a few pictures of the real thing. Just to make everything seem legitimate.”

“Sure.” Oliver ignores the weird fluttering feeling in his chest and edges closer. Felicity is _beautiful_ up close -- all vivid eyes and bright pink lips. Intimidatingly so. His gaze drops to her lips, and he pauses. “Uh, ready?” he asks. 

She bites her lip for a second, then adjusts the phone in her grip before nodding. “Yeah, yes. Yup, that’s me. Ready for--”

He kisses her, and it’s -- yeah, it’s not good. 

It’s _really_ not good.

She’s stiff, holding herself apart from him, and she makes a tiny noise of surprise or maybe irritation. When he opens his eyes, she’s trying to see the screen of her phone and kiss him at the same time.

Exasperated, Oliver steps back. “Felicity!”

“What?” She turns wide eyes on him. “I was trying to make sure we were in frame!”

He rolls his eyes and just kind of dives back in. This time, Felicity squeaks when their lips meet, and her fingers dig into his arm. They’re not so much kissing as they are standing with their mouths touching. Oliver hesitates, then pulls back and opens his eyes.

Felicity ducks her chin, bringing the phone closer and examining the picture she took. “I didn’t quite get us all the way in frame,” she tells him. “Also, we look weird. Do people always look this weird when they’re kissing? I mean, probably, right?” She looks up at him, and her brow is furrowed with confusion and she is honestly too adorable for words.

And suddenly he doesn’t feel like he _has_ to kiss her, he actually _wants_ to kiss her.

“Felicity,” he murmurs, leaning closer. Her eyes go wide and she sucks in a breath. “Get the camera ready.” She fumbles with her phone for a moment, but doesn’t look away. When he sees her arm lifting up again, he tugs her closer, right up against him, and leans down until his lips are a hair’s breadth from hers. “Stop thinking,” he whispers, and then captures her mouth with his.

She relaxes, and almost settles against him, and triumph and anticipation shoot through him. If their first two kisses were painful and awkward, they seem to have gotten over it, because this feels as natural as breathing.

The kiss is still light, her lips barely pressed against his, but they're so soft and her breath is so warm and her eyes are closed, and all of it together makes his hands come up to cradle her face of their own accord.

The click of her phone’s camera sounds just as his fingertips brush over her cheek, but it doesn't break the moment. If anything, her hand spasms against his side and she makes a small noise in the back of her throat, and the wire-thin thread of his self-control snaps.

Oliver pulls her face closer and angles his mouth over hers. Before he can even think about what's next, he feels her tongue seek out his bottom lip, and he opens his mouth to let her in on a groan.

She's up on the tips of her toes to get better access, and he slides his hands down over her shoulders to the small of her back to haul her up against him. She moans, and his heart is about to beat out of his chest, and he moves his hands down further, intending to knead her--

She stiffens, and everything seems to stop at once. Although she's barely moved, it's like she's disconnected from him completely.

He releases her, both of them breathing hard, and she steps back abruptly. She stumbles a bit, unsteady, so he reaches out to help until he catches sight of her face and freezes.

He feels like he's been punched in the stomach. The look on her face, those wide eyes staring up at him--she looks stricken and lost and almost unbearably sad.

He realizes, very suddenly, that this must have been her first real kiss since Cooper. Her first kiss since her boyfriend who died, with a man she's not even really dating.

_Shit_.

He has no idea what to say. “I'm-- I’m sorry, Felicity. I didn't mean to--”

“No, no,” she interrupts, sending both hands through her hair and holding it back from her face. “It's okay, it's fine. I think we got it,” she finishes, nodding at the phone.

Her cheeks are flushed and her lips are swollen. God, she looks beautiful, he thinks again helplessly.

She moves another step away from him, leaning on the overstuffed green armchair. “It's good practice, that'll help for later. And at least we got it out of our systems,” she babbles, laughing weakly.

He absolutely did not get it out of his system. He thinks the very opposite might have happened.

She's watching him, a combination of wariness and expectation in her eyes, and he realizes he's been staring dumbly at her. “Uh, yeah. Yes. That should do it.”

“Right,” she says, hands fluttering nervously between them. “So we shouldn't need to do this, you know, kiss, again. For a while. A long while. But if you want to touch me some more--”

God in heaven. He has to physically take a step back.

If her eyes get any wider, they're going to fall out of her head. “Not-- not _touch me_ touch me. I meant if you need to practice having your hands on me--” 

Her jaw snaps closed, like it's the only thing she can do to stop the stream of words from rushing out.

For his part, he just barely holds back a groan at the idea of having his hands on her. It's a very near thing.

“No,” he grits out, voice way deeper than it should be. “No, I'm good.”

“Okay, good. Good. I’ll just…” She trails off as she pulls the newest picture up on her phone and stares it. He watches, captivated, as a tempting flush rushes over her face, her neck, and down her chest to where the v-neck of her shirt stops covering her--

He takes another deliberate step away and thinks of something else. Anything else. Baseball. Baseball stats. Felicity reciting baseball stats and... That’s not really helping.

Clearing her throat, Felicity continues like she’s unaware of his internal struggle. And he really hopes she is. “I’ll just send this to Lyla so that she can help us pick a few to use.” She clicks her phone off and looks up at him with forced cheerfulness. “And hey, now you can go home and forget I exist for a few days.”

There is absolutely zero chance of that happening, he thinks. 

Fuck, Thea was right. He's an idiot.


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

 

 

When the towncar pulls to a stop in front of the Shrine Auditorium, Felicity can already hear the dull roar of the fans lining the red-carpeted entrance. Leaning across Oliver, she peers out the tinted windows, scanning the gauntlet of entertainment reporters with their klieg lights and microphones and cameras. Then she takes a big, gulping breath, gets out of Oliver’s personal space, and looks over at him.

He looks totally unaffected. Of course. She would be irritated, but something about his calm nonchalance is keeping her nerves just the slightest bit less... _nervy_.

Oliver quirks an eyebrow. “Ready?”

She’s not. She’s _really_  not. Like, not even the littlest bit ready. Because once they step out of this limo, they’re fully a couple in the eyes of the world. Well, okay, maybe not _the world_ , because she’s pretty sure people in Ecuador or Finland or Namibia don’t much care about whether an American pop star and a Hollywood action star are dating. But in the eyes of the tabloid press, the coverage of her and Oliver will shift from breathless, speculative _are they really dating_  stories to RINGWATCH2013-level hysteria.

Can you ever _really_  be ready for something like that?

But her Instagram post of them kissing has well over a million likes already (and all manner of borderline insane comments), Diggle and Lyla have each fielded at least a hundred press inquiries, and this runaway _Olicity_  train is hurtling down the tracks. So she nods and says, “Yup. That’s me. I’m ready. Super ready. Can’t wait.”

Oliver huffs a laugh in that strangely appealing way of his, then reaches for the door.  He slides out, pausing only to button his suit jacket before reaching his hand back to help her out of the car. She can hear the crowd clamoring, the volume increasing as they spot him standing there in that effortlessly gorgeous way of his. He’s in a slim-fitting, light grey suit with a crisp white dress shirt, undone at the collar. No tie. It _should_  be too much. It _should_  look like he’s trying too hard to be A Serious Actor at the MTV awards, but his sheer attractiveness makes the whole thing pretty devastating.

And... crap, she’s supposed to be getting out of the car now. Right.

Felicity slides along the seat carefully, keeping her dress firmly in place so there’s no accidental upskirt opportunities. She takes Oliver’s hand and swings her legs out, then accepts his help to unfold herself from the car and find her balance on these gorgeous and _very_  tall heels.

Sara dreamed up an amazing look for Felicity tonight -- a mix of more adult elements, like the painfully beautiful shoes, and trendier, darker pieces. She’s got her lavender hair down and wavy, three silver necklaces of varying lengths and weights around her neck, big chunky earrings, and this amazing cocktail dress that is somehow relaxed but also flattering. There’s a daring neckline, and a flirty skirt shape, but the deep charcoal color lends it an air of seriousness that the Felicity of a year ago would have avoided. Tonight, the only colorful items she’s wearing are her bright red heels and her deep fuchsia lipstick.

When she’s standing there, inches from Oliver and only a few yards from the red carpet, he leans in and says quietly, “You look beautiful.”

Felicity flushes, mostly because she tries not to. She hears the excitement in the crowd as they see that, yes, she and Oliver are there _together_ , and she knows it’s time to wave and smile and play the roles they’ve agreed to. But she still can’t seem to tear her gaze from him -- not until he turns, keeping her hand in his, and tugs her along towards the wall of entertainment reporters.

Other actors and musicians and entertainers are milling about, following the normal red carpet routine in the background. She’s used to it -- she’s been to dozens of events very similar to this one, but still the conversations seem louder, the flashbulbs brighter, and the feeling of being watched seems more intense than ever.

Diggle rode with them in the limo, but up in front; Felicity won’t let herself check, but she knows he’s following along with them as they make their way along the red carpet, keeping out of the camera shots while monitoring everything. Lyla still hasn’t announced her pregnancy, leaving Diggle to pull double duty tonight. Felicity is more nervous about walking a red carpet than she has been in years, but she forces herself not to look back to reassure herself with Diggle’s calming presence. Instead she pushes down her anxiety and plasters on a wide smile that only feels _mostly_  fake.

Oliver must sense her reluctance, because he pulls her closer to his side momentarily to say lowly, “I’ve got you.”

It’s only meant to be a statement of solidarity, Felicity gets that. But when she looks up to meet his eyes -- which, how are his eyes _bluer_ right now? Is that even possible? -- she sees sympathy and earnestness, and in that moment it feels like something more. Something like support and protection and intimacy.

Even though it couldn’t possibly be that, given that they don’t know each other that well and they’re in full view of like a hundred people. But they need to get through this night as a believable couple, so she lets herself believe for a moment that it’s real, that he’s there because he cares about her and wants to look out for her.

And then it becomes surprisingly easy to give that back to him. She feels her shoulders relax some, and her smile becomes a bit more genuine. “I’ve got you, too.”

The effect on him is surprising -- for a brief moment, he seems... startled. She wonders about his support circle; wonders how many people he can really rely on. They’re slowly becoming friends, but she still doesn’t know _all_  that much about the real Oliver Queen.

Before she can react, he squeezes her hand and nods, a quick smile flitting across his face before that familiar, neutral-but-super-hot, vaguely disaffected expression appears on his face, and he turns at the sound of his name being shouted. Screamed, even, by the fans cordoned off beyond the entertainment reporters’ setups.

Felicity takes a breath and turns her attention to the fans, and she and Oliver take a long moment to wave and smile as the screams grow _so_  much louder.

Then Oliver leans in. “Ready for the interviews?”

Ignoring her jittery reaction to the very prospect, Felicity flashes him a bright, mostly genuine smile. “Sure!”

He quirks an eyebrow and dips his head, kissing her briefly. It’s sweet and unexpected, distracting her from the growing certainty that she’s going to say something idiotic to the press. His lips are soft and warm, and she returns his kiss instinctively. Oliver eases back, smirking down at her with that stupid, handsome face of his. “I bet they’ll have some questions for us.”

If she thought the crowd was loud before, it was nothing compared to the shrieks she hears in reaction to _t_ _hat_  very public kiss, chaste and innocuous as it may have been. And Oliver knows it, too, if that annoying, persistent smirk is anything to judge by. She rolls her eyes, batting his chest lightly with her free hand. “Smug is not a good look on you,” she tells him, and it’s a total lie.

Oliver laughs outright, but doesn’t respond, just escorts her to the first reporter, whom Felicity has a bit of trouble placing. Then it comes to her -- Susan Williams from Entertainment Tonight. And Felicity is _pretty_  sure she remembers Susan Williams filing some pretty mean stories on Oliver, but he seems completely unconcerned as they come to a stop before her.

“So it’s true!” chirps Susan, who is beaming at them in a way that suggests it’s not all for the cameras. She seems personally delighted -- Felicity assumes it must be that she’s getting their first interview as a couple. “You two are an item?”

“We are,” Felicity answers, aiming for brevity over babbling.

“And we’re both excited to be here tonight,” Oliver adds, a noble attempt to steer the conversation away from their relationship, though Felicity knows it won’t work. Their overall plan is to say very little and let their presence here -- and the handholding and the kissing and the attempted heart-eyes -- speak for them. It’s an optimistic plan, considering that they’re walking a red carpet in front of the entire entertainment press, but Felicity is clinging very hard to her goal of getting through the night without saying anything wildly embarrassing. Which is why she’s happy to leave the brunt of the charm offensive to Oliver. “The MTV Movie Awards are always a good time,” he adds, dropping her hand.

Before she can panic, he’s slung an arm loosely around her waist, shifting closer so their bodies are touching. He’s very warm. And very solid. She may or may not lean into him a little more.

“So is this a one-off, or is it true love?” Susan asks, gesturing between the two of them with the reference cards she has clutched in her non-microphone-wielding hand. Felicity wants to both laugh and cringe at Susan’s sensational choice of words -- and just _barely_ resists quoting _wove, twue wove_ in reply -- but manages to keep a straight face. She’s pretty proud of herself.

“We wouldn’t be out here inviting the scrutiny of the entire world if we didn’t know there’s something between us,” Oliver answers smoothly.

Felicity stiffens against him, because that’s a pretty brazen lie to be telling right now, but Susan seems to be eating it up.

In fact, she takes a half-step closer, and asks, “And how did you meet?”

“It was a setup, actually,” Oliver says, huffing a laugh and managing to sound both warm and a little sheepish. They'd decided to remain as close to the truth about their meeting as possible to make it easier to sell. Well, easier for her to sell; Oliver seems to know exactly what he's doing. It’s interesting to see this side of him -- the purposefully magnetic, glossy, glib version of the man she’s just starting to get to know. “Though we didn’t know it at the time.”

Susan smiles encouragingly. “So a blind date?”

“Nothing so formal as that,” Oliver says. “We're represented by the same agency. Our agents thought we'd hit it off,” Oliver continues, choosing that moment to look down at her. “Turns out they were right.”

He says that last part to her, and the combination of his low, intimate tone and his piercing blue eyes on hers draws her in, sparks an undercurrent of electricity between them. The hum takes her by surprise, even though it's familiar -- she'd gotten a taste of it during their ill-fated kiss at her apartment -- and for a moment she can't look away.

He really is a talented actor, she thinks. He actually has her believing it.

And it's that thought more than anything -- even more than the reporter literally hanging on to their every word and move -- that breaks the weird connection she's caught in with him. That little shot of reality reminds her of where they are and what they're doing.

The fact that her cheeks are warm with a blush she can’t seem to help only cements the image of the two of them in love, and Felicity almost wishes that pretending was more difficult, that Susan Williams didn’t look so convinced. They’re falling into this illusion so easily, maybe too easily for her comfort. Shouldn’t this be harder?

“That’s adorable!” Susan gushes before turning to Felicity. “We were all so worried about you after Cooper Seldon’s death, Felicity. I know you were so devastated that you couldn’t even leave your house for weeks and weeks!” Felicity stiffens, and Oliver shifts closer, his big, warm palm soothing along her spine, but Susan just keeps talking. “Is this you finally rebounding from that tragedy?”

And that’s why she can’t -- _shouldn’t_ \-- be so comfortable right now. How could she have forgotten, even for one moment, about Cooper? Diggle had prepared her for this, he’d known that showing up on the red carpet with any man, let alone Oliver Queen, would remind everyone that she _hadn’t_ been seen with anyone in almost a year. She should not feel blindsided by Susan’s question, no matter how sneaky and calculated it was in its delivery.

It's her own fault that she _does_ feel blindsided -- she let herself be distracted by Oliver's _everything_ , and now she's standing there in front of a camera feeling both oddly cold and hot enough to start sweating, hoping that it's not obvious that she's trembling.

“I--” She stops, swallows hard around the lump in her throat, trying desperately not to cry, not to show the pain she’s feeling. “I don’t--”

“You don’t need to answer that, Felicity,” Oliver interrupts in a growly tone. The words are for her, but when she glances up at him, the angry glare on his face is _certainly_  all for Susan Williams, who’s trying to interject some sort of apology, but Oliver is not having it. “I don’t appreciate you dredging up painful memories for Felicity,” he tells the reporter. “Have a good rest of your evening,” he adds curtly, and then they’re moving.

He’s ushering her away from Susan Williams, and also back to the middle of the wide, red carpet, giving them a little distance from the long row of reporters lining the edge. Felicity lets herself be pulled along for a moment, then slows to a stop. Oliver reacts immediately, turning back to her with his eyebrows raised in question. “Felicity, what--?”

“Thank you,” she says, feeling exposed and more than a little vulnerable. They’re surrounded -- PR reps, handlers, agents, and a bunch of musicians move around them, making their way up the carpet, from media outlet to media outlet. There’s quite literally nowhere they can go for a moment of privacy except into the venue, but that would require them to breeze past every other reporter waiting for their sixty seconds of Oliver Queen and Felicity Smoak. It’s tempting, but she knows skipping the press line will lead to a dozen unflattering stories. She steps a little closer to Oliver so their conversation can’t be recorded or overheard. Thankfully, no one seems to be paying their impromptu huddle much attention. Still, she keeps her voice quiet when she adds, “I’m sorry I froze.”

He’s leaning in, his big hand still pressed to her spine, his arm cradling her in a half embrace. It’s surprisingly comforting; she wants to lean into his solid warmth, just for a moment. “Don’t apologize,” he tells her. “She shouldn’t have asked you that. It was cruel.” Oliver studies her carefully for a moment. They’re inches apart, gazes locked, and it occurs to her that they probably look _very_  couple-y to outside observers. And then his expression shifts, his concern for her clear as he asks, “Are you okay? Do you want to bail?”

She’s so surprised by his suggestion that she laughs. “What? We can’t bail! Oliver, you’re presenting one of the awards!” she protests.

He shrugs a careless shoulder. “So?”

“So,” she sputters, “we can’t just _leave_.”

“Sure, we can,” he tells her. “We can do anything we want, Felicity. If you’re uncomfortable or upset or you just don’t want to be here anymore, we’ll leave. We can go back to the hotel, or find something to eat,” his voice has a teasing lilt at the end, reminding her of just how much of a fuss she’d made over skipping meals all day for this stupid, gorgeous dress. But she can also tell he’s dead serious -- he will leave right now if she wants to.

That realization makes her feel things she probably shouldn’t, like maybe she can trust Oliver. Like maybe he’s actually becoming someone she can rely on -- she has too few of those people in her life these days.

“But leaving would...” She trails off, glancing back to see Diggle having a heated conversation with Susan Williams’ producer. Felicity turns back to Oliver, tipping her chin upwards in defiance. Because, yes, it’s been awhile since she’s faced a red carpet press line, and sure, she would love nothing more than to head back to the hotel and curl up with some _Parks and Recreation_ , but that option feels a little too much like running away. “She doesn’t get to have that kind of an effect on my night. _Our_  night,” she tells Oliver, because Felicity Smoak is a lot of things, and stubborn is _definitely_  one of them.

Oliver grins at her. “Okay, then.” He steps aside, ushering her towards Linda Park. “Shall we?”

& & &

Three long, intermittently stressful hours later, Oliver and Felicity pause briefly for some photographs outside the after party they’re attending. Between the two of them, they’d been invited to no fewer than seven parties, but this one, at a posh nightclub named Verdant, is hosted by her label, and she’s still very aware that she needs their full support for her new album. So here she is, with Oliver in tow, smiling and posing dutifully and trying to be present for the photographers who are just doing their jobs.

It’s difficult, though, because she’s tired and _famished_. She keeps having to pull herself back into focus, and seriously considers suggesting they skip out and catch up with Diggle at Big Belly Burger instead. Earlier, after Felicity had finished her performance, there’d been a short conversation backstage about whether Diggle should come with them to Verdant. “It wouldn’t be the first time I’d tagged along to one of these things,” he’d pointed out, but he hadn’t sounded terribly excited at the prospect.

So she’d sidled up closer to Oliver, partly because she wanted the conversation to be private -- lots of people hung out in the wings during the show -- but also because she’d just changed out of her stage outfit and back into her dress and was freezing as a result. Oliver was basically a walking furnace, radiating heat with his jacket off, and his big arm around her.

Felicity had shaken her head at Diggle affectionately. “That’s when I was underage and new to the business, not when I was out with--” She’d stopped herself before saying Cooper’s name, although she’s still not sure why. “With someone. Don’t you think it’ll look weird if you suddenly start showing up to these things again?”

“It’ll look like you want to keep an eye on us, and surely _that’s_ not true,” Oliver had said a little pointedly.

Diggle had leveled a look at him. “Of course not. I trust you,” he replied evenly.

Felicity’d suppressed an eyeroll at their silent pissing contest. “We’ve talked about this, Dig. I’m more than capable of keeping Oliver in hand.”

Diggle had let out a sigh, suddenly looking rather pained, and then she’d felt Oliver’s chest rumble with laughter against her shoulder. “Oh come on,” she’d protested, “that was barely a double entendre. No, you know what, that wasn’t even a single entendre!”

“Yeah, well, I’ll leave that to you then,” Diggle had said wryly. “I’ll be having a Belly Buster while you’re trying fill up on fancy finger food. This is a win for me.”

She _had_ rolled her eyes then, but he’d totally been right, and now she kind of wishes they’d gone with him. But she understands the kinds of obligations that come with her success, so she will stand here on these gorgeous and somehow torturous high heels and pose for more pictures with Oliver.

Before in the auditorium she was cold, and now out in the LA air she’s hot. All she really wants to do is find some ice water and sit down so that she can re-hydrate and get some weight off her throbbing feet for a little while. Interviewing, staying aware of each time the cameras were on them -- and the cameras were on her and Oliver a _lot_  -- and pretending to be in love with a near-stranger for hours at a time is surprisingly exhausting.

She doesn’t realize she’s been using Oliver’s arm as a crutch more and more until they’re making their way to the door of Verdant and he looks down at her horribly beautiful shoes with humor plain on his face. “So how badly are your feet hurting right now?”

“Like these shoes are made of flails,” she jokes ruefully, shifting to go through the door he’s opened for her. “I usually bring a pair of flats with me to these things, but with tonight being our debut, I thought I should risk the pain.” In fact, they’d decided to stay in their red carpet outfits for the afterparty instead of changing, mostly because Felicity _adores_  this dress and it would be weird if he changed into jeans and a henley. Despite her throbbing feet, she’s still happy all the pictures of her tonight -- except for her performance -- will feature this dress.

Oliver follows her in, his hand landing at the small of her back as he ushers her towards the bar, nodding at the occasional acquaintance but never pausing. “Flails?” he repeats, leaning in a bit to be heard over the DJ at the other end of the large club.

They pause beside a single open barstool at the concrete bar, and Oliver presses her gently toward the seat. “Flails, yeah, you know, the weapon?” His brow furrows in confusion, but before she can launch into an explanation, he tips his head to the bartender who has appeared out of thin air. “Oh!” Felicity turns a grateful smile to the bartender. “Bless you, sir. Could I get a French 75, please? And a water. A _big_  water. With lots of ice.”

Oliver orders a neat scotch with water, and not seeing anyone in the room they absolutely _have_ to schmooze yet, she hops up on a barstool while the bartender mixes their drinks. Picking her feet up gratefully, she wonders if she can get away with taking her shoes off at this point. “Definitely flails,” she mutters.

At Oliver’s quizzical look, she perks up at the opportunity to impart esoteric (and gruesome) knowledge. “You know,” she starts enthusiastically, “those weapons that medieval types used to carry? The sticks with the big, pointy metal balls on the ends?” She gestures with her hands, trying to draw the weapon in the air, but Oliver still looks pretty lost.

He inches closer, leaning his elbow on the bar and watching her with an amused arch to his eyebrow. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“What?” Felicity shakes her head in mock disappointment. “What self-respecting action star who _I know_  did some crazy shirtless Roman movies doesn’t know what a flail is?"

“It was ancient Greece,” he corrects with a long-suffering sigh, “and it... wasn’t my best professional decision.”

She shrugs. “Okay,” she agrees, because, yeah, she’s pretty sure that movie was quite soundly panned, “but shirtless. All the time, shirtless.” Which honestly redeemed the movie. Or at least the promotional posters.

Oliver rolls his eyes. “I wore a breastplate for most of it,” he says, “but yeah. There were quite a few baby oil scenes.”

Felicity is momentarily distracted by this because, now that he mentions the baby oil, she very clearly remembers the key art for that movie. Grim, shirtless, shiny-muscled Oliver Queen, glowering directly at the viewer in quite a compelling fashion, his incredibly toned body shown off to great advantage. Yum.

Thankfully, their drinks arrive before she blurts out something about how much she appreciated an oiled up, shirtless Oliver Queen. She scoops up the large glass of water and slugs down roughly half, ignoring Oliver’s judge-y eyebrows, then puts the glass down on the bar beside her. “Come to mama,” she says to the champagne flute as she lifts it, pausing to tap it against his tumbler before taking a fortifying sip of the drink. It’s well made -- crisp, refreshing, and sweet enough to mask how strong it is. She hums happily, and shifts, crossing one leg over the other and resting the glass against her thigh.

“Flails,” she says, trying to find her way back to her original point. “You know, they’re all pointy and vicious and so you can just--” She mimics whacking him with a flail-- “and hit your enemies with a big spike-y ball.”

Oliver winces at the notion. “Sounds pretty awful.” He glances down at her shoes. “They’re really that painful?”

Felicity twirls her ankles in little circles. “Better now that I’m not standing on them, but...” She shrugs, distracted as another thought occurs to her. “How have you never seen a flail after being in like ninety-seven action movies?”

“Excellent question,” chimes in a new voice, and Felicity twists so quickly she nearly falls off of her barstool.

Some part of her registers that Oliver caught her, his big hands warm against her thighs as he steadies her. But most of her focus is on the tall, lanky, attractive man standing in front of her. He’s pale, with a shock of dark hair and pretty blue eyes, looking somehow rumpled and approachable in his jeans and suit jacket/button-down shirt combo. Or maybe it’s the red Converse All-Stars he’s wearing. “You’re Barry Allen,” Felicity says with a surprised smile. She had a pretty insane crush on him when she was in her mid-teens -- he’s about her age, and had been on a cheesy but reasonably entertaining superhero show for a couple of years.

He grins at her, that same crooked, charming grin that lights up the movie screens now that he’s broken through in a few quirky, charming romantic comedies. “You’re Felicity Smoak,” he answers.

“I am,” she agrees, feeling a slight flush across her cheeks as they smile at each other. It’s weird, the rush of remembered affection she feels for the Barry she used to watch each week on her TV -- he seems like an old friend, somehow, even though they’ve just met.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Oliver shift, then tries not to react when his hand slides across her skin to rest between her shoulder blades. It’s... it’s definitely not a _bad_ sensation, the way her skin tingles under his fingers, but it _is_ distracting. And he does know that he doesn’t have to constantly touch her for them to look like a couple, right?

When Oliver speaks, his voice sounds a little lower than normal, and she finally glances at him in curiosity. But Oliver’s attention is laser-focused on Barry, who, Felicity remembers now, worked with him on a movie a few years ago. “Barry,” Oliver greets, offering his right hand to Barry.

“Great to see you again, Oliver.” Barry shakes Oliver’s hand, glancing down at their hands with an uncertain little laugh, like maybe Oliver’s grip is crushing his fingers. “It’s been a while.”

“It has,” Oliver answers, his tone neutral but strangely guarded, and Felicity is left wondering whether there’s some bad blood between them. Why else would Oliver be acting all weird? And how can she possibly find that low, growly thing he’s doing with his voice attractive?  

“Ugh, get a grip,” she mutters to herself, taking a sip of her drink to cover when Oliver glances over at her. She swallows, then points back and forth between the men. “You worked together, right? That heist movie?”

“We did,” Barry answers with an eager grin, and unless Felicity is reading Barry really, really wrong, whatever tense weirdness is happening right now is pretty much all on Oliver’s side. “It was a good experience. I played his _much_  younger brother.”

Oliver huffs a flat, humorless laugh. “That was a terrible movie,” he says, glancing over at Felicity. “It was supposed to be very slick, very Oceans 11. Instead it was...”

Felicity remembers the movie -- or, at least, she remembers laughing at the trailer. And not in a good way. “Schlocky?” she offers, wrinkling her nose.

Barry chuckles, drawing Felicity’s attention back to him. “Definitely schlocky,” he agrees good-naturedly. “But it was quite a learning experience working with Oliver. I really got to see how the first guy on the call sheet needs to act. Watching Oliver taught me how to prepare, how to lead by example.”

Oliver hums noncommittally, hand flexing slightly against her back, and Felicity just barely curbs the urge to elbow him. She wonders if Oliver remembers that film differently, or if he has some reason to dislike Barry. Despite her tendency toward awkwardness and non-sequiturs, she’s never liked encounters like this, where odd, unspoken undercurrents leave her feeling off-balance.

When it becomes clear Oliver isn’t going to respond to Barry’s kindness, she actually does give him a soft kick. She turns her attention to Barry and asks, “What are you working on now, Barry?”

Barry shifts his weight, looking down at his feet for a moment, and, seriously, he’s so cute that Felicity wants to put him in her pocket and take him home. “Deciding between a couple projects,” Barry answers, “but mostly I’ve been taking some time to--”

“Barry,” greets a gorgeous woman as she appears at Barry’s side with a bit of a nervous smile, “there you are.” Felicity immediately appreciates the woman’s beauty -- with dark skin, brown eyes, and her hair styled in long, big waves, she’s radiates an effortless glamour that Felicity can only aspire to.

“Iris!” Barry answers. “Hi! Sorry, I was just-- This is my friend, Oliver, and his girlfriend, Felicity Smoak.” Felicity startles when he refers to her as Oliver’s girlfriend, nearly missing the second half of Barry’s introductions. “Oliver, Felicity, this is Iris West, my-- Uh,” he stumbles a bit, his sudden blush obvious even in the dim lights. “Well--”

But Iris simply rolls her eyes, sliding an arm around Barry’s waist and offering Felicity her right hand. “I’m his girlfriend,” she explains. “It’s kind of new.”

Barry laughs, relaxing a bit now that Iris saved him from fumbling around for the right words. “New?” he echoes, sounding incredulous. “We’ve known each other since we were six.”

“Yes,” Iris shoots back, “and you asked me on a date seven weeks ago. It’s _new_.”

Felicity grins at them both. “Well, congratulations, and it’s great to meet you, Iris.” She shakes the other woman’s hand. “Your dress is stunning,” she adds, taking a moment to admire the subtle sheen of the deep red cocktail dress Iris is _totally_  rocking.

“Thank you!” Iris practically beams at her. “I _love_  your hair,” she adds. “Is it pink or purple?”

“Lavender,” Oliver supplies, adding a little shrug when Iris, Barry, and Felicity turn confused looks his way. “Felicity has corrected me a few times. It’s lavender.”

He glances at Felicity very briefly, then focuses his attention on Iris. “It’s nice to meet you, Iris.” Just like that, Oliver’s weird growl-y-ness is gone, and his body language is much less reserved as he offers his hand to Iris. Felicity’s skin is cold in its absence, and she feels a flash of something close to irritation, wondering whether the sudden return of his charm has anything to do with just how beautiful the newcomer to the conversation is.

Not that she has any right to feel any kind of way about Oliver’s reactions to stunningly gorgeous women. And it’s not like he’s being inappropriate or overly friendly, he’s just... more relaxed. There’s nothing all that questionable about that.

It’s totally fine.

She consciously shoves that confusing feeling of weirdness away and refocuses on the conversation continuing in front of her.

“You, too,” Iris answers, pumping his hand firmly. “I’ve heard good things about you.”

Oliver chuckles, and he’s doing that effortlessly charming thing again. “Obviously not from the press.”

Barry clears his throat, and Felicity glances between him and Iris, convinced she’s missed something. “Iris,” Barry explains ruefully, “works for _Variety_.”

Felicity freezes, and she can see Oliver’s frame stiffen beside her. “Oh,” Felicity manages. Has she said anything stupid so far? Or damning? Or quotable at all?

Iris is clearly fighting a grin at this point, and she lifts both hands as if in surrender. “I’m here strictly as a civilian tonight,” she reassures them. “This whole party is off the record for me. Even though,” she admits with a shrug, “I would kill to interview you two. Or either of you, actually.”

Barry slings an arm around her shoulders and leans in, kissing her temple. “You’re incorrigible.”

Iris grins up at him. “You love it.”

He nods affably. “That’s true.”

And just like that, Felicity’s mood shifts. Iris and Barry are a lovely couple -- in sync, supportive, and clearly in love. _Real._ Her stomach sinks, and almost reflexively, she looks at Oliver, who’s watching her with an unreadable expression. They share an uncomfortable moment of awareness before Felicity puts on a bright smile and turns back to Iris. “Can we get you guys something to drink?”

Iris nods enthusiastically, and Oliver calls the bartender back over. To Felicity’s surprise, the next hour passes in easy conversation with Iris and Barry. Twenty minutes in, Felicity decides that she and Iris are going to be friends; forty minutes in, they’ve got plans to meet up the next time Felicity makes it back to LA.

Barry and Oliver are quieter, letting she and Iris direct the conversation, and there’s still some element of weirdness going on with Oliver, but it’s mostly under wraps. All in all, the afterparty is _way_  more fun than Felicity had any right to expect. Still, she and Oliver politely decline Barry’s invitation for them to accompany he and Iris to their next couple afterparties, and she hops down off of her barstool to give Iris a goodbye hug.

And then she and Oliver are alone again, and her feet are definitely still killing her, and some part of her is envious of what Iris and Barry have. She’s also tispy and _really_  hungry now, but the spectre of Oliver’s odd discomfort is still hanging over them, and Felicity’s not sure how to get through the rest of the night without addressing it.

“So…” she draws out, sitting and swiveling back toward the bar to prop her head on her hand, “do you want to talk about why you went all _grr_ back there on Barry?” She makes a little claw with her free hand to illustrate her point.

“I didn’t... go _grr_ on Barry,” Oliver starts, and his imitation of her -- sans the claw hand, sadly -- makes her smile a little despite the awkwardness. “At least not exactly _,”_ he finishes, and his eyes dart to her, expression so caught that she has to roll her lips between her teeth to keep from laughing.

“Mmm,” she hums, “Okay, no _grr._ How about growly? Does growly work?”

“Felicity,” he says, annunciating every syllable, making her name suddenly sound like _more_ than it is. Her cheeks flush involuntarily, and she shivers a little, and she must be tipsier than she thought because this is ridiculous. All he said was her _name_.

She shakes herself and gets back on topic. “Come on, I know something happened with you. You can tell me and we can talk it over like _friends do_ \-- remember how you wanted to be friends? -- or we can drop it and do something else.” She looks over his shoulder and happens to catch sight of someone they both know. “Oh, hey, there’s Ray. We should call him over,” she says innocently, tilting her head at him. “He wasn’t quite done telling you about the cool supersuit for his new movie, was he?”

She’d rescued Oliver from an enthusiastic Ray Palmer backstage after her performance, and she’s still not sure whether Oliver’s eyes had gone all wide out of gratitude or because of the super-short black leather skirt she’d worn to perform. All she knows for sure is that he is completely out of patience for anything Ray Palmer related. So she gives him her most innocent look and points past him. “He’s right over there.”

Oliver’s lips twitch, just slightly. “If you wave him over, you could be next, you know. Ray latches on to people. That’s quite a bluff.”

She shrugs a shoulder flippantly. “I’m from Vegas, it’s how we do things.”

He sighs, and his shoulder fall slightly. “It’s just, Barry is... easy. He’s bright, and funny, and just... basically everything I’m not.”

There’s a heaviness in Oliver’s words, and she knows he’s getting to something that really bothers him, but she’s a little uncertain as to whether she should draw that out or try to lighten things up a little so he feels comfortable continuing.

She reaches out and pets his arm, still unsure which way to go until she opens her mouth and, “Oh, don’t worry, you’re pretty too,” tumbles out.

So, the latter. Okay then.

To her relief, Oliver laughs. “Thanks,” he says, shaking his head. “I mean, I know I’m not the easiest guy to get along with -- especially not anymore. Not like Barry is. Watching you and Barry hit it off just reminded me that I’m more of an... acquired taste.”

She’d seen several of Oliver’s masks before now, how expertly he’s hidden himself behind confidence and smugness and charisma, but this might be the first time she’s genuinely sure she’s seeing _Oliver_ , bare of masks, no pretense at all.

“Oh,” she says, softening. What does she say to something as honest and relatable as that? “I understand. I was actually sort of thinking the same thing,” she confesses.

Then she realizes that she’s sort of insulted him, and tries to backtrack, which is of course where things start to go wrong. “Not about you! About us, kind of? Because Barry and Iris are so... _them._ But it’s not because of you. You and I get along fine most of the time, and that makes sense because I’m still acquiring your taste, which I’m sure is great!”

That... did not make it better.

Oliver presses his lips together and his eyes crinkle attractively, but there is no distracting her from that humiliating thing she’s just said. “Uh... that’s-- that’s not--”

He holds up a hand. “It’s okay. I know what you meant. I think.”

She takes a deep breath, looks at the ceiling, and counts backwards from three in her head. When she works up the nerve to meet his gaze, Oliver looks studiously serious, and she decides to just move right on past that gaffe. “You’re fine. And I’m fine, and _we’re_ fine. I don’t need you to be like Barry, this works because you’re _you._ Besides, it’s not like you’re actually trying to impress me.”

Oliver seems to hesitate for a split-second, recovering so quickly that Felicity is convinced she imagined it. “Right,” he says, not quite smiling. “Of course not.”

Before she can come up with a response, she notices Ray is on the move. He’s too far away and the bar is a little too dimly lit for her to be sure whether he’s looking at her, but he’s definitely moving in their direction. She wrinkles her nose -- it would be rude to bolt, right?

Oliver notices her reaction. “What?”

She winces. “Okay, don’t turn around, but Ray really is coming over here now. I’m sorry, I swear I didn’t wave him over!”

He’s already pushing away from the bar, offering her his hand. “I’ll buy you Big Belly if we make it out of here without a Ray encounter.”

She shouldn’t indulge him, because Ray seems perfectly nice (if somewhat overeager), but -- Big Belly. So she puts her hand in his and takes a step. Ugh, these shoes.

“You okay?” he asks, leaning close enough for her to feel his body heat. She totally doesn’t shiver. That isn’t a thing that happens. Nope.

“I will be if there’s a milkshake in it for me,” she tells him with a broad smile.

“Deal,” he answers with a small but genuine grin.

As she limps along beside him, Oliver loops his arm around her back, pulling her into his side and acting as a big, hard, muscle-y crutch. The more time she spends with him, the more she thinks she might actually like him. As a person. Her very valid concerns about the kind of man he’d always seemed to be have been pretty consistently proven unfounded by the kindness she’s seen in him.

So what if they don’t have the warmth and ease of Barry and Iris? They’re not supposed to -- she and Oliver aren’t together, but maybe they’re on their way to being friends.

  
END CHAPTER


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: Hello, friends! We are writing this fun little AU 'verse (a) around other projects, and (b) as inspiration strikes, so there is no update schedule for this story. There's been a biiiiiit of a time gap between chapters of late but rest assured we have not abandoned this story, and we appreciate your patience and support. 
> 
> CONTENT WARNING: Brief mentions of online harassment/threats in this chapter.

 

 

It’s only under moderate duress that Oliver finally creates a Twitter account.

Also Instagram and Snapchat. He refuses to join Facebook, though he’s almost positive there’s a neglected page somewhere out in the world. He hasn’t cared enough to look into it -- his PR team is supposed to handle that.

Whatever. He’s not particularly interested in social media (he gets more than enough attention from the press and the general public without twittering), but Felicity is apparently quite good at it. Or at least she uses it enough that he assumes she _must_  be good at it -- she basically hasn’t stopped texting him screenshots of random twitters for the past hour.  

It seems that the internet has gone a little nuts over their appearance together last night. He hadn’t bothered to check the tabloids this morning, texting briefly with Thea before he, Felicity, and Diggle flew back to Starling. His sister let him know they apparently made quite a splash at the MTV Movie Awards, and while he made a mental note to take a look at TMZ later, it hadn’t even occurred to him to check twitter.

Turns out that Felicity’s checking it for the both of them. The twitters -- twits? that can’t be right -- she keeps sending him are full of exclamation points and a manic kind of excitement that surprises him. Obviously they’d expected interest from the public or they wouldn’t be doing this in the first place, but the twitters Felicity is sending him are bursting with hyperbolic language.

Girls and more than a few guys have, over the years, shouted or gone a panicky kind of silent, or occasionally cried upon seeing him, many of them declaring their undying love. Oliver _sort of_  gets that. But the stuff Felicity is sending to him seems to be that same fervent devotion directed at the idea of the two of them. There are carefully cropped screenshots of them -- of Felicity in the audience, smiling as she watches him present with Ray Palmer, and of Oliver watching her performance from the wings of the stage, looking a little nervous and a lot impressed -- all captioned with indecipherable emoji sequences. There are hundreds of pictures of their red carpet arrival -- particularly of their short private conversation following the interview with Susan Williams -- and dozens more of them entering Verdant for the after party. There are even a few paparazzi shots from this morning at LAX. All of the pictures being tweeted and retweeted are paired with detailed analysis of the way he’s holding her hand, and the way she smiled at him, and how they’re _so obviously in love_.

It’s a _lot_.

Oliver remembers the Bennifer phenomenon, and Brangelina, he’s just never directly experienced that kind of reaction before. (Mostly because he’s never dated anyone long enough for anyone to get attached, including him.)

He can’t quite read Felicity’s tone from her texts, but he thinks she’s pleased and more than a little amused by the internet’s enthusiasm for Olicity.

Whatever the fuck an _Olicity_ is.

Eventually, he texts Felicity back, _I don’t understand twitter_.

She responds quickly, _If you had snapchat, I would totally send you an exasperated 10-second video right now_. 

He grins at his phone. _secret video clips? sounds dangerous_.

_Perv_ , she shoots back. Then:   _Would you please crawl out of the dark ages and join twitter? The internet is great_. He’s still typing his response when she texts again. _Okay, not great. At least not all the time. Sometimes the internet is mean_.

Seconds later, his phone buzzes again. _But overall it’s worth it_.

_Usually_ , she adds.

The quick progression of thoughts is so delightfully _her_  that he’s still laughing when he flips to her contact page and calls her. There’s no way he can keep up with her via text.

“What is this, the eighties?” she says in lieu of _hello_.

Oliver rolls his eyes even though she can’t see him. “How would you know, you were barely alive in the 80s.”

“I forgot how much _older_  you are than me,” she teases.

Oliver ignores the barb. “Your attempts to get me to join twitter are unconvincing,” he tells her instead. He’s not lying exactly, but he wouldn’t be jump-starting this conversation if he weren’t at least a little interested in the chaotic excitement she’s been sharing with him.

“Tweet,” she says.

Oliver frowns when she doesn’t follow that declaration with any kind of explanation. “Come again?”

“I’m trying to get you to _tweet_  once you join _twitter_ ,” she explains. Because of course she knows the lingo. He’s never felt particularly old or out of touch, but occasionally, Felicity’s facility with the entire online social media world reminds him that he is, at the very least, technologically lagging.

“I’m perfectly happy _not_  doing any of that,” he answers, because she’s amusing when she’s exasperated, “or learning the terminology.”

“My technological heart is so sad right now,” she shoots back with an exaggerated sigh. “Come over and I’ll help you.”

Her offer is unexpected, and Oliver takes a moment to digest. “Uh. Right now?” Because if he’s honest with himself, he’s still recovering a bit from spending yesterday with her. Particularly the afternoon and evening, when she was wearing that mouth-watering dark grey dress with the daring neckline. He was well aware of her beauty even during that first, drunken encounter, but so many hours in such close contact yesterday drove home how much lovelier she’s grown over time.  

And while this strange agreement between them might result in an easy friendship, he’s not convinced she even _likes_  him very much yet. He knows she’s still recovering from Cooper Seldon’s death, and the last thing he wants to do is mess up the burgeoning friendship between them with his attraction to her.

“Sure,” Felicity answers brightly. “I should really beef up your phone’s security anyway,” she continues, and it sounds like she’s talking more to herself than him at this point. “Especially if we’re going to have pictures on it. Yes, you definitely need a hack-proof phone. Luckily for _you_ , I wrote a bunch of code for my phone that should mostly work for yours -- you’ve got the _last_  generation, but I can tweak it.”

“Okay,” he agrees slowly. Putting extra protection on his phone is a good idea -- typically, famous women are targeted more than men for phone hacking, but it’s common enough that he’d prefer to bolster his security if at all possible. Not that he has an extensive dick pic collection or anything -- he just wants to shield the things that are truly important to him from the glare of the spotlight. Like his text conversations with Thea, for one.

Still, he hadn’t guessed that Felicity’s technological fascination might extend to being able to do security upgrades on his phone herself. “So you’re going to--”

“Fix your phone, yes,” she interrupts brightly. “And also get you set up on some social media accounts. Don’t worry, I’ll walk you through it.”

Oliver checks his expensive yet self-consciously understated watch, noting that it’s nearing dinnertime. “And you want to do this tonight?” Not that he has plans, but _she_  might. His new career direction coupled with his move back to Starling is a good part of the reason why he’s completely without plans tonight.

And most nights, if he’s being honest. He’d gone from near-constant partying in LA to a new mostly sober life in Starling after Thea’s OD, and realized in the process that most of his friends were _drinking buddies_ , with a handful of starfuckers mixed in, hanging around for free drugs and some small part of Oliver’s spotlight.

These days, he spends lots of time alone. At first, it was an opportunity to get a better handle on who he is, and figure out the kind of man he wants to be. For a man who spent nearly a decade alternating between large movie sets and Hollywood parties, Oliver has enjoyed the quiet and the solitude a lot more than he would’ve expected. His relocation to Starling gave him the chance to slow down long enough to focus on the things that matter to him. He just hadn’t realized he’s started to feel kind of isolated until he met Felicity.

“Now’s good, actually,” she tells him. “Can you grab some food? I wouldn’t be mad at Big Belly, or a pizza, as long as you don’t get something gross on it like pineapple. We can put a movie on and I’ll fix all the exploits on your phone, beef up your encryption, that kind of thing.”

He’s momentarily speechless, because what she’s suggesting sounds almost like a date -- a _real_ date, not one of their staged outings. He knows it _can’t_ be, for multiple reasons. First, because Felicity doesn’t like him that way. And second, because he’s still figuring his own shit out, and he can’t believe he’d be good for anyone yet.

So he ignores the weird feeling in his lungs about what this could mean -- surely it doesn’t mean anything except that Felicity thinks he’s a Luddite in need of technological assistance -- and pulls himself back into their conversation.

“Oliver?” she asks, sounding suddenly uncertain. “It’s fine if you’d rather--”

“No,” Oliver rushes to say, because she basically fascinates him at this point. He _wants_ to do this, to interact with her and get to know her without the pressures of performing for an audience. And somehow this invitation feels important, even if Oliver can’t put words to why. “I don’t have anything going on, and Big Belly sounds great. I’ll go pick it up and just come over?" 

“Yep,” she replies, warmer and more confident than a moment ago. “And bring your phone. And any other networked electronics currently decorating the office you probably never use.”

He feels a mild jolt of embarrassment as they say their goodbyes, because she's right. He’s had his place in Starling for years, but he'd only had the office professionally designed when a reality show wanted to do an episode on his homes, and he hasn't really used it since. He stores his laptop in there, but his dining room table has always served as his desk -- he used to read scripts anywhere, but these days he’s making an effort, and he’s got a whole process involving blue, black, and red-inked pens to mark up his potential projects.

Not that he has many decent projects to choose from at the moment.

Oliver hasn’t been a particularly introspective man, so it’s easy to push down these unsettling thoughts on his way to Felicity’s, but they’re replaced by others. He takes the Bentley this time because, in a brief moment of weakness Oliver isn’t proud of, he had given in to googling Cooper’s accident, clicking on an article and then almost immediately closing it out again.

It’d been a quick, guilty glance, but he’d seen enough to learn that Cooper had died in a Lamborghini not unlike the one Oliver had driven to Lyla’s house. Felicity hadn’t said anything at the time -- he’s honestly not even sure she noticed, she doesn't seem like the type to care what kind of car he drives. But the chance to protect her in some small way from a cruel reminder of her loss is enough to have him rethinking the Lamborghini, at least for any time he’ll be around Felicity.

Oliver hits Big Belly, and it’s nearly forty-five minutes later when he arrives at her house.

He knocks on her door with a bag of burgers and fries in his hand, and a slightly unsettled feeling in his stomach.

When Felicity answers, she leaves him momentarily speechless. She’s dressed completely differently from her gown last night, but she’s just as attractive in black yoga pants and a faded Wonder Woman t-shirt, with her hair tied back in a simple ponytail. There’s a light spattering of freckles across her nose, and she looks _so_  young, but also... fresh and bright as she grins up at him.

He’s not sure what it is that he finds so compelling, maybe it’s that she seems more comfortable around him than she has before. Whatever it is, he’s grateful that he’s holding takeout to occupy his hands, because he has the sudden urge to press nervous palms into his jeans.

“Hi!” She steps back, ushering him into her penthouse.

He follows, holding the BBB bag aloft. “You ordered a cheeseburger,” he says in lieu of a greeting, moving into the airy living room. He’s only been here once before -- the afternoon he’d first kissed her -- but the cheerful decor is as welcoming as he remembers.

Felicity smirks. “My hero.” She slips around the edge of the cobalt blue couch and drops into the overstuffed cushions, curling her legs up beneath her and reaching for the remote.

Oliver follows her lead, settling into the other side of the couch and bringing one knee up to face her a little bit. They chat amiably as they eat, mostly about what to watch. Felicity has Netflix open, scrolling down to a category called Silly Action Movies with Hunky Male Leads that includes an embarrassing number of his movies. Plus a couple Ray Palmer flicks.

When Oliver glares at her, she starts to laugh, admitting she did a bit of recreational hacking to create that category just to get a rise out of him. He won’t admit it to her, but Felicity’s infectious laughter is worth the mild embarrassment.

Then she flips to a category called Indie Breakthroughs, and makes him choose among four movies he’s never heard much about and would have never picked on his own. He’s only familiar with a couple of the top-billed actors, and he doesn’t readily recognize the directors for any of the options. With not much else to go on, he picks one based on the cover art.

Once the movie starts, it becomes clear to Oliver quickly that this is one of Felicity’s favorites. She’s only half paying attention as she works on his phone, glasses he’s never seen before perched on her nose. She pauses to watch certain moments and scenes with a fond smile on her face, and even occasionally whispering her favorite lines along with the actors.

What she _doesn’t_  do is watch him for his reaction, which he appreciates. And to his surprise, he likes the movie more than he would’ve expected, drawn in by the performances and the refreshingly realistic dialogue. _This_  is the kind of thing he’s looking for -- characters with depth and humanity and flaws, instead of playing yet another Hollywood automaton with a mean right hook and the perfect sardonic quip. They’re not even twenty minutes into the movie when he starts asking Felicity about the creative team behind the movie, and the name of the actress who’s making an impression on him.

Oliver’s actually a little disappointed when Felicity pauses the movie, but she pronounces his phone perfectly safe and hands it back to him. He perks up when she scoots closer so they can both see the screen of his phone while she walks him through how to join twitter.

“That’s a terrible username,” Felicity warns, her nose wrinkled as she watches him slowly type “TheOliverQueen” into twitter’s account creation page.

Oliver huffs irritably. “Someone already _has_  my actual name.”

“Yes, and it’s obviously a fan,” she argues, turning those beautiful blue eyes up to him. He’s never seen her in glasses before tonight, but he finds that he really likes the look. She tilts her head, her forehead wrinkling slightly as she continues, “If you reach out -- and by _you_  I mean Lyla -- you can get it for the low, low price of like a Skype call or an autographed movie poster.”

“Have you seen this, though?” he demands, scrolling through the @oliverqueen feed. “It’s basically all screenshots of me half-naked.”

Felicity leans against him to get a better look. He’s mildly offended when she starts laughing down at the steady stream of pictures of him, mostly shirtless and more often than not holding weapons. He’s done a _lot_  of action movies -- shirtless fighting was kind of his thing for most of his twenties.

“Or _more_  than half-naked,” she observes, tapping one purple fingernail against the screen to emphasize her point. Years ago, he’d played an inept prostitute on a cable show, and while he’s more than comfortable with his body, he hadn’t realized quite that much of him would make it on screen.

He doesn’t hate the way she seems a little distracted by the screenshot, though. Nudging her with his elbow, Oliver says, “I’m not taking over an account that’s just pictures of me mostly naked.”

Felicity has her lips pressed together in a very obvious attempt to keep from laughing at him. “And you’re impatient.”

“You’re the one who’s been harassing me to get on social media,” he points out. “Now you want me to wait?”

She’s still snickering when she shrugs and turns her attention back to the movie.

Oliver finishes up creating his twitter account, and then frowns at the blank screen, trying to compose a first tweet. _Hello, twitter_.

“No, no, nope!” Felicity reaches over and grabs his phone from him. “That’s terrible. Let’s not do that. Hang on.” She works her way effortlessly through the app, finding her own account, Thea’s, and Lyla’s and making sure Oliver follows them. (Diggle, like Oliver himself, is apparently a social media Luddite.) Then Felicity puts his phone down between them and leans forward, grabbing her own phone from the coffee table. “No!” she warns when he reaches for his phone. “Wait like thirty seconds.”

Moments later, his phone chirps. She’s still working away on her phone, then she hits send and turns to him with a smile. “Okay, now you don’t have to introduce yourself.” Off of his puzzled look, she tips her head toward his phone and says, “Go ahead.”

Oliver opens twitter, as the chirping notifications start to increase. He sees a tweet from Felicity at the top of his feed -- _You’re welcome, twitter. @TheOliverQueen is finally here. (Don’t blame me for the username.)_

Well, that explains it. He’s already got more than a hundred followers, with the chirps turning into more of a nonstop stream of noise. “How do I--?”

Felicity takes the phone from him, flipping screens for a moment, and then the incessant chirping stops. She keeps working, lips pursed, then hands his phone back. “You’ll only get notifications from people you follow, and also whenever Thea tweets. Or me,” she adds with a grin.

He huffs a laugh. “You tweet a lot, don’t you?”

She flushes, but holds his gaze. “I tweet the _normal_  amount!” she answers, her tone defensive.

He smirks at her, dropping a pointed look to the phone she has cradled against her chest. “Okay.” Flipping to his camera, he shifts it to selfie mode, then leans into her, resting his head on her shoulder. “Smile.”

“Oliver, what-- Oh, frak, I was _mid-word_ , you can’t post that!”

Oliver checks the picture -- it’s actually pretty cute, she looks moderately panicked, and he’s smirking. He’s _definitely_  keeping it.

“No, no, no,” Felicity warns. “I will ruin your digital life if you post that.” He’s still leaning heavily on her, so her attempts to elbow him are pretty ineffective. “Take another.”

He shifts, tipping his head towards her, and feels her head drop down onto his. They’re slumped into the couch, and when he brings the phone up for another picture, the image definitely captures their newfound ease with each other, and they’re both smiling pretty genuinely. He snaps the picture. “Thanks,” he says, not bothering to move as he fumbles his way through how to reply to her tweet and include a picture.

Felicity stays put, alternately mocking his ineptitude and explaining how to work the twitter app.

Eventually, he tweets, _Well, @felicitysmoak is very persuasive_  over Felicity’s protests.

“They’re going to think I, you know, _persuaded you_ ,” she grumbles.

“You did persuade me.”

“Right, but not like _that_!”

Oliver is laughing as he points out, “Don’t we want people to think you can persuade me _like that_? Isn’t that the whole point of this?”

She huffs. “I’d really rather not have people speculating about our sex life,” she declares. Then her eyes go wide and she shakes her head. “Not-- We don’t _have_ a sex life, obviously, I just meant-- People should-- Ugh!"

He just grins at her, repressing the strong urge to kiss her temple, and says, “Put the movie back on.”

 

& & &

 

“We don't want to say yes to the first projects we get unless it's something that's very high quality,” Lyla had written when she forwarded this batch of potential projects to him, “but read the scripts and send your notes back to me. It'll help me get a better grasp of where you are and whether we're going in the right direction.”

Oliver's been at it for about an hour when he decides to take a break -- his phone has been chiming on and off all day, so he knows that Felicity and maybe even Thea have been active on Twitter. He tells himself that he’s checking in because it's good for appearances to catch up on her tweets, maybe interact a little online, and not at all because he's missed talking to her the past few days.

He opens the app, trying to wade through his feed, but there’s just a wall of incomprehensible tweets, with liberal use of emojis. “Is that an eggplant?” he mutters to himself, trying to reason his way through the tweet 

Frustrated, he flips to his follow lists and goes to Felicity’s feed. Her last few tweets seem to be a rundown of her trip to the nursery to find a plant that will survive her purple thumb. (“Because purple is the opposite of green, and I have the opposite of a green thumb,” she’d explained.) He thinks about her apartment, and despite the riot of color everywhere, he can’t remember seeing a single plant.

Amused, he flips over to text her, _i didn’t realize you were a vicious plant murderer._

She answers quickly. _You could’ve just tweeted that to me_.

He shifts in his chair, tugging his laptop closer and opening the browser. _i’m still figuring twitter out. why are they calling me dad?_ He navigates to twitter.com and logs in, because if she’s willing to talk to him about social media, he has plenty of questions to keep the conversation going.

Felicity responds. _It means they like you, but there’s no explanation that makes it okay_. A moment later, she adds, _Ignore it. Definitely DO NOT interact or ask them to stop._  Then: _And OBVIOUSLY don’t ask them to call you dad. Or daddy. Yuck_.

He grins at his phone because just reading her words conjures the sound of her voice, and the way she wrinkles her nose in distaste. _there are very few people i would ever ask to call me daddy_.

_Ew!_ she answers almost immediately, and that’s enough to set Oliver off laughing. By himself in his house. He can’t remember the last time he felt such light-hearted amusement -- there’s just something about Felicity’s unique take on the world that delights him. She follows up with, _Your humor is a real risk sometimes, Oliver._

She’s not wrong, though he’s never thought of himself as particularly funny. He scrolls through his twitter feed on the laptop, searching for another peculiarity to send her way. _someone named Lesleyyy4888 just asked me to murder her, what the hell?_  he texts. 

_Yeah_ , Felicity answers so quickly he wonders how she can possibly type that fast, _that’s a thing. It’s meant as a compliment_.

_the internet is weird_ , he decides.

_Truer words, my friend_ , she replies. _Also when they talk about wanting to punch your dumb face, that means they want to have sex with you._

Oliver squints at her response for moment, perplexed. And then he hits the little phone icon to call her, because the time lag for him to type his answers to her is starting to annoy him. Definitely not because he wants to hear her voice. “So threats are compliments?” he asks when she answers.

“Only some of them,” Felicity explains. She’s a little quieter when she adds, “There are some actual threats, sometimes. And, you know, mean tweets, but,” she continues, brightening a bit, “when it’s clearly hyperbole, they’re usually just expressing all of this passion they have for you in an eccentric way.”

Oliver ignores the last part and asks, “Threats? You’ve been threatened?”

She sighs. “I’m a woman on the internet, Oliver. Of _course_  I’ve been threatened.”

The resignation in her voice stirs anger in his chest. Because it’s not okay that she’s had to accept awful behavior towards her as the price of doing business. “I don’t understand. Why doesn’t twitter do something about threats?”

The sharp bark of laughter she lets out makes his chest ache; he doesn’t expect that underlying bitterness from her. Not that he thinks she’s shallow -- it’s quite the opposite, actually. And because he’s seen glimpses of the depth of her pain, he’s even more impressed by her buoyant personality. He’s never been the kind of person who can find the good in every situation -- in every person -- but he thinks Felicity might be.

“Because the patriarchy,” she answers. “I mean, there’s a much longer answer, but lots of men on the internet are terrible. Women, too, but their threats are a lot less... you know, _rape-y_.”

Oliver stills. “You’ve gotten _rape threats_?” he demands, much more loudly than he intended to. But, honestly, what the fuck?

“Oliver,” Felicity says, “I got my start posting videos of me singing on YouTube as a teenager, so I’ve been getting death and rape threats since I was 15. It’s exhausting, but you learn to mostly ignore it.”

“ _Fifteen_?” he echoes, genuinely shocked. He’s not naive -- he knows the world is cruel to women, but he’d never really considered that girls would be faced with sexual threats.

“Felicity, that’s...” He trails off, unable to come up with a single thing to say in response to that. He’s had his fair share of confrontations with guys in bars who hate his movies, or who want to prove something to themselves, and he’s had some awful things shouted at him by the paparazzi. But he can’t think of a single time where he’d received an actual death threat, and never, ever a rape threat.

“Look, I don’t want to scare you off of twitter or anything,” Felicity says. “Most people are great. It’s just -- there will always be a few terrible people in any large group.”

“Well, sure, but...” Oliver shrugs helplessly. “That’s unacceptable.”

“I agree,” she tells him, her tone full of forced cheer. “What else do you have questions about?”

Oliver hesitates. He’d really like to talk more about this, maybe figure out a way he can help. But she clearly doesn’t want to keep discussing the vicious side of the internet. He wants her to trust him, but he knows pushing her to open up will just push her away.

So he swallows down his anger on her behalf, and his curious questions, and focuses on his twitter feed. He needs to find something else to ask her about, or she’ll hang up and continue on about her day. “Okay, how about this:  FelicitysAngel says,  _I ship Felicity and Oliver so fucking hard I want to die_. What is that?”

“Shipping!” Felicity chirps, and this time, the amusement in her voice is genuine. “Okay, this is about our relationship,” she explains, her emphasis on the final syllable.

“Ah,” he says, though he is still a little befuddled. What about their relationship? 

“Basically, they’re fans of our relationship -- uh, the fake part of our relationship, I mean,” she backtracks quickly.

“Oooookay,” he answers slowly. Still strange to him, but seems harmless enough. Oliver sees another puzzling tweet. “What does _hot af dot tumblr dot com_  mean? What’s _af_? That’s not a real world -- is it an acronym? Why is tumbler spelled--?”

“No, no, no,” Felicity breaks in loudly. “Absolutely not. You are nowhere near ready for tumblr, my friend.”

“What the hell is tumblr?” he wonders, opening a new tab to take a look.

“It’s a social media site, but mostly focused on fandoms. You...” she hesitates. “Do you know what fandoms are?”

“I don’t live under a rock, Felicity,” he answers acerbically. “I know what fandom is.” The navy blue site has loaded, and he starts to type his name into the search bar. “And a site focused on fandom doesn’t sound that scary, Felicity.”

Her answer comes fast and high-pitched. “There are elaborately drawn pictures of you and Ray Palmer having sex." 

Silence reigns for a moment as he tries to make sense of what she just said. “What?” he manages, blinking. The cursor is still hovering the “search” button, but he lifts his fingers away from the trackpad in a deliberate move. “ _Ray Palmer_?”

“Oh, God,” Felicity groans, “please tell me you’re not a giant homophobe.”

“Of course not,” he answers, moderately offended. “I just can’t stand Ray Palmer.”

He can hear her sigh of relief. “Well, that seems to be the most popular pairing, but you have options. Barry Allen. Curtis Holt. That Australian guy from... I don’t know, those car chase movies?”

“Slade Wilson,” he supplies.

“Right. Yes,” she answers. “You and Slade are nearly as popular as you and Ray.”

“Is this like fanfic?” he wonders. 

“You know what fanfic is?” she asks, sounding more than a little surprised.

“I was in the _Shepherd Moon_ movies with Rene Ramirez,” he says by way of answering her question. “We went to San Diego Comic Con a few years back. I learned quickly.”

“Ah,” she says. “Right.”

“Yeah.” Oliver carefully closes the tumblr tab. “I didn’t want to read about myself having sex with Rene, and I definitely don’t want to _see_  pictures of myself having sex,” he decides. “At least not imaginary pictures,” he adds absently.

There’s a strange choking noise from Felicity, and he winces. “Sorry, that was... sorry.”

“No, no,” she answers, her voice pitched a little higher than normal. “I get it. So I guess you never watched your _Stiffed_ episodes?”

“I made that mistake once,” he admits, thinking back to the heady time when he’d expected big things from a bad show of which it's main attraction was his mostly naked body simulating sex. A lot. _Stiffed_ only lasted one short season on a cable channel, and it took him nearly a year to book another part. Looking back, he’s pretty sure _Stiffed_ helped him get typecast, but at the time, he’d been ecstatic. “I hosted a watch party with some friends for the premiere,” he tells her.

“No!” Felicity yelps. “You invited people over to _watch yourself have sex on screen_?” She’s clearly laughing at him by the time she gets through her question, and even just picturing her amusement makes him smile.

“I was just _simulating_  sex,” he corrects. “But... yes. I didn’t think through the realities of seeing my bare ass on my new 50-inch high definition screen.”

Felicity gives a strangled little, “Oh, my God.”

“I was just really excited,” he admits. “It was my first lead role. I ended up hiding in the kitchen cringing, while my asshole friends laughed it up in the media room.”

Felicity is laughing too hard to answer, and Oliver finds himself laughing along with her, enjoying the moment.

When she recovers, she sniffles a little, like she may have actually laughed until she cried. And then she says, “That’s actually really cute, Oliver.”

He scoffs. “I don’t think my friends would agree with that description,” he points out.

She hums in response, and a short, strangely comfortable silence descends for a few moments. He’s a little disappointed, because he expects her to end their conversation now.

Instead, she asks, “So you grew up in Starling, right?”

Oliver blinks. “Yeah.”

“Okay, then please explain to me why you weirdos prefer Starbucks to Jitters?” she demands. “It’s _criminal_!”

With a relieved sigh, Oliver gets up and moves towards the kitchen to grab a soda. He settles into the leather armchair in his living room and tries to explain Starlingers’ tortured history with Jitters. Felicity is unpersuaded, but amused, and the conversation moves easily to other topics.

By the time Felicity sighs and says she should probably get to bed, they’ve been on the phone more than an hour. After they exchange slightly awkward goodbyes, Oliver absently flips to the picture gallery on his phone, bringing up his favorite shot of them from the red carpet. He studies it for a moment, taking in the way she’s smiling at him, and the look on his face. Thea texted him this particular picture earlier with the simple caption _Impressive “acting,” big brother._

He can’t really deny anymore that he’s got a crush on Felicity, but he’s more than happy that they might actually be becoming friends now. He wants to spend time with her, to talk to her, to laugh with her, to get a better sense of what makes her tick.

Friendship with Felicity is more than he expected when he’d agreed to this... _arrangement_ , and he'll truly be content if friends is all they ever are. More and more, Oliver is realizing he could use a friend like her.

But he’d be lying if he said looking at them in this picture didn’t make him long for something more.

 

-30-

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

 

 

 

While it’s true that Felicity plays many instruments well, her two best -- and favorites -- are guitar and piano. She plays at least a couple of hours a day, typically. In fact, her awesome penthouse apartment has a professional-level studio, with a baby grand piano, a half dozen guitars, three basses, two keyboards, and a violin (that she really, truly  _ sucks _ at playing, but adores anyway).

It’s basically her own musical nirvana, built to her exacting standards, so that she can pick up any instrument at any time and write music. Because writing music, along with writing code, is the way she expresses herself. 

Today, though, she has all of those instrument options and unlimited time and all of these complicated thoughts and feelings swirling around inside of her, and none of it matters because she. cannot. write.

Her brain is a jumble of discordant ideas, fragmentary melodies. Nothing works.

Felicity carefully sets her favorite acoustic guitar aside, then pushes herself up off the couch and stomps into the kitchen for some comfort ice cream. “Why can’t I write?” she asks Jerome (the ceramic frog on her counter). Her fingers are stiff and clumsy on the frets, her voice sounds pitchy, and the combination has left her feeling restless and useless and all kinds of other - _ less _ es. “Remember when I had any musical talent at all?” 

Jerome just grins at her unhelpfully. The jerk.

“I used to be good,” she grumbles at him. “I had talent.”

She does have innate musical talent, but it’s mostly a fluke she learned to play any instruments in the first place. Felicity grew up poor, with no real access to an arts education in the overcrowded, underfunded public schools of Las Vegas, and she spent most afternoons at the Safari Casino while her mother worked long hours as a cocktail waitress to keep them housed, fed, and clothed. The other cocktail waitresses and the bartenders and blackjack dealers were like Felicity’s nannies. 

It wasn’t exactly a fine arts education, but when she was still in elementary school, Felicity met Linh, the warm, supportive older woman who played piano in the entrance hall. Bright grey streaks shot through the sleek black of Linh’s long straight hair, and the contrast fascinated Felicity when she was a young girl with dull, dishwater blonde hair. Linh had deep smile lines around her kind brown eyes, and wore variations on the same plain black outfit every day in an attempt to blend in with the shiny black grand piano. 

Some of Felicity’s earliest memories are of twirling around in that grandiose hall (which is now, through clear adult eyes, actually dingy and rundown and more than a little tacky) while music spun magically around her. The sound of the notes echoing off of the tiled floors and mirrored walls as Linh played was the most beautiful mystery to Felicity. She’d been immediately spellbound, sitting beside the piano for hours, running her fingertips reverently along the varnished wooden legs until Linh offered to teach Felicity to play. 

From that day on, Linh and Felicity spent at least an hour each day in the small, cluttered changing room that housed a dozen uniforms, three identical pairs of modest black heels, a jumble of makeup, and a small electric keyboard wedged in against the far wall. Felicity sat on a borrowed, slightly crooked step stool beside Linh and learned to play the piano.

By the time she was eight, Felicity would run to the Safari after school, complete her homework, and spend the rest of her night practicing on that keyboard, learning classics and writing her own simple songs. Learning the scales, the music theory behind major and minor keys, the simplest chords on the piano -- to Felicity, it felt less like acquiring new skills than learning the words to express things she intuitively understood.

Making music -- losing herself in the ebb and flow, in the beautiful emotion of it all -- it came easy for her. Her two great loves, writing code and writing songs, couldn’t be more different on the surface, but to Felicity, they’re simply ways to communicate her knowledge and her feelings.

It’s always been easy. She’s been a songwriter for more than half of her life, but somehow, now, when she has 80% of her next album written and demo’ed, she is unable to write. Like at all. 

Not a chord, not a melody, not a single note. Utter bupkis.

God, it’s frustrating.

With a bowl of ice cream doused liberally in chocolate sauce, she grumps her way over to the comfy armchair near the large windows and flops down. After she takes a few healthy spoonfuls, she calls Dig, but he doesn’t answer. Which is unusual enough that she leaves a quick message, trying to sound less cranky than she is, asking after him and Lyla.

Then, with some level of reluctance, she tries her mother. 

Her mother answers on the second ring, as bubbly and excitable as ever. “Hey, baby girl!”

“Hey,” Felicity greets, her rotten mood ringing in the tone of her voice.

“Oh, baby, what’s wrong?” Donna asks.

And suddenly, she feels silly. Juvenile, even, when she’s supposed to be a self-sufficient adult. “Just some writer’s block,” she answers with a dismissive wave that, of course, her mother can’t actually see through the phone.  

“Do you need me to come by with ice cream?” Donna asks, and just the offer lifts Felicity’s mood a bit. She and her mother are very different, and they fought a lot through Felicity’s early teens, but Donna Smoak is the person who taught Felicity that ice cream makes anything at least a little bit better. 

“Already eating some,” Felicity admits with a little laugh. “But thanks for the offer. I just wanted to get my mind off of my inability to write for a bit.” Donna is excellent at a lot of things -- thrifty shopping, hair care, makeup application, throwing together  _ the _ most attention-getting outfit in every room -- but the one place she can’t really help Felicity is musically. Donna is tone-deaf, and uncritically enthusiastic about anything Felicity writes, regardless of quality. 

“Okay,” Donna agrees too easily, and Felicity immediately regrets her impulse to reach out to her mother. Because she knows exactly what’s coming next. “So,” Donna continues in a lilting sing-song, “how is Oliver?”

Felicity drops her head back against the chair and groans. 

They’ve had some variation of this conversation every single time they’ve talked in the past month. Felicity had put off even telling her mother about Oliver for as long as possible, only calling her once that stupid kissing picture went viral. Felicity’s initial “I’m dating Oliver Queen” announcement had gone about as she expected -- lots of screeching, so much screeching. It’s possible all the rodents in Starling were chased out of the city purely due to her mother’s over-the-top,  _ intensely _ high-pitched glee.

And, predictably, once Donna recovered the power of speech, her first question had been, “ _ How’s the sex? Is it good? It must be good with a man who looks like that. _ ”

Yeah. Felicity and her mom are pretty different in some ways. 

So just like that day -- and so many of the days since -- Felicity whines, “Mom!”

“Oh, don’t you  _ Mom _ me.” There’s some real hurt in Donna’s voice, and it throws Felicity. “You’ve been dating this man for a month and you paraded yourselves in front of the world, but you haven’t even introduced him to me.”

Felicity drops her spoon back into the ice cream bowl. “Mom--”

“I’m so happy for you, baby,” her mother continues, her voice a little shaky with emotion. “After Cooper--”

“ _ Mom _ ,” Felicity tries again, hating the little flutter of panic that she feels because her mother brought up Cooper. Her heart is still too bruised by his loss (and her role in the whole thing) to survive a conversation about him.

But her mother ignores her interruption. “I was so worried you’d lock your heart away like you did when your dad left.” 

Each word hurts, triggering a barrage of bad memories from her childhood -- days and days of crying and begging her mother to go find her dad and bring him home. Pointless promises that she’d be better, she’d be a  _ perfect _ little girl if only he’d come home and be her dad again. 

“You have the most generous heart, Felicity,” Donna continues, “and you love people  _ so hard _ that it pummels your feelings when they’re gone. But you’re also my brave little pistachio nut, and I’m just -- I’m so proud of you for putting yourself back out there. Is it so strange I would want to meet the man who got you to open up again?”

Felicity feels like the worst person in the entire world. How can she lie to her mother about Oliver after  _ that _ speech? How can she let her mother go on thinking she’s healing when she’s really not? 

Her stomach clenches and she considers coming clean. But when she tries to put it into words --  _ actually, Mom, I’ve been lying to you because I’m still a broken-hearted mess and Oliver and I are just using each other for favorable press _ \-- she just... 

She  _ can’t _ .

Not for the first time, she thinks she and Oliver don’t fully understand the trap they’ve inadvertently set for themselves.

But she can’t fix that tonight, so she takes a breath and says, “I just... I’m sorry, Mom, I didn’t...”  She trails off, still struggling for words. Which is frustrating, because Felicity is nothing if not good at words. This roiling tension, this overwhelming sadness and guilt inside her that’s stealing her words -- it reminds her of those first, dark days after Cooper’s death. She’d been quiet then. So quiet. The world had gone fuzzy around her, distant and obscured by a strange feeling of disconnection; a protective white noise that trapped Felicity in her own head with all of her worst thoughts for weeks and weeks.

And she realizes, suddenly, that the world seems to have come back into focus over the past couple of months. Since when has she been able to experience life without that numbing layer? Since when has she morphed back into motormouth Felicity? 

Since when has she let herself forget Cooper?  _ How  _ could she let herself forget him? It seemed to be happening more and more, and not because of time or distance or whatever people say heals all wounds. Could it be because of Oliver?

She almost doesn’t want to know, because what kind of person does that make her? A pretty man comes around for a while, and suddenly Cooper’s death doesn’t matter anymore?

Felicity makes a small, pained noise before she can stop herself.

“Oh, baby girl,” her mother says, “I didn’t mean to upset you. Just -- how about we have dinner at the bar? That way I can meet your Oliver.”

And Felicity feels the jaws of the trap snap shut around her.  _ Frak _ . 

“The bar” is Paroli, the trendy gastropub in downtown Starling that Donna runs and co-owns. Donna Smoak is a clever, determined, and independent woman. She’s Felicity’s number one fan, and has refused most of Felicity’s offers of financial assistance, only allowing her daughter to buy her a solidly middle class home in Starling and provide seed money for Paroli. The pub is named for a French gambling term, which caused some confusion at first since it is  _ not _ snooty French cuisine. But Starlingers figured out pretty quickly that Paroli is instead a fun place with great food and it’s become pretty successful. Felicity is so proud of her mother.

She is also  _ very _ wary of just how badly a dinner with Donna Smoak and Oliver Queen could go. In public.  _ So _ public. All those tragically hip patrons with their phone/paparazzi cameras to ensure Felicity’s humiliation will be aired on TMZ.

“Um...” she prevaricates dumbly. 

“Felicity,” her mother chides, “I’m not going to embarrass you! And I won’t take no for an answer.”

Well, frak. Felicity would argue, but she got her stubborn determination from her mother, and she knows this argument is already lost -- primarily because her mother has a really good point. If Oliver and Felicity were  _ really _ in a relationship, of course she would’ve introduced him to her mother by now. “Yes, okay.” She does her best to mask her reluctance, but probably fails. “I’ll let you know which day works.”

“Yay!” Donna cheers happily. “I can’t wait, baby girl.”

“Me, neither,” she manages, “but I should call Oliver and invite him.”

Donna agrees cheerfully, promising to drop by the next day with cookies before hanging up. Felicity mutters to herself as she polishes off her ice cream. 

Then she carefully rinses the bowl, and reorganizes the dirty dishes in the dishwasher, and pauses to water the tiny herb garden along the kitchen windowsill, until she finally runs out of things to do before calling Oliver.

“Why?” she whines to Jerome the ceramic frog, who, again, simply smiles back at her.  _ Such _ a jerk.

Felicity stalks over to her big blue couch and flings herself dramatically onto it. She flips to Oliver’s contact info and, before she can wuss out, presses send with a muttered, “Fine.”

He answers after two rings. “Felicity, hi!” He sounds genuinely pleased to hear from her, which is strange. They’re...  _ kind of _ friends, she supposes, but they definitely don’t call each other to chat. They’re in a semi-awkward,  _ reach out when you need something or when we have a publicity thing to handle _ stage. Or, at least, Felicity thinks they are, but Oliver sounds like he’s ready for a nice long chat when he continues, “What are you up to today?”

“Ice cream,” she answers, then winces. “I mean, I just had some ice cream. And also, I just talked to my mother.” 

“Ah,” he says noncommittally, allowing her to take the lead. She almost admires his ability to wind his way through conversations without ever getting caught up or spun around. She, of course, has no such talents.

So she goes straight for the ripping-off-the-bandaid method. “I’m really sorry about this, but my mom wants to have dinner.”

There’s a moment of confused silence. “Okay?” Oliver answers, clearly needing more information -- either about the dinner or her mother.

She pauses, trying to figure out how best to explain the brassy blonde forty-something dynamo that is her mother. “You may have noticed I don’t talk about my family much,” she begins.

“I have noticed that,” Oliver answers, though he’s one to talk. From her very basic research before their first meeting, Felicity knows he  _ has _ family -- she knows a bit about Thea and her struggles, that his father died several years ago and that his mother has since remarried -- but that’s about it.  She supposes growing up in a giant mansion with loads of money is very different from facing eviction every other year, but every family has their shadows and painful spots, and she’s sure Oliver’s is no exception.

They may have addressed sex and PDA and kissing during their negotiations for this situation, but somehow they’d missed how to handle the really intimate stuff, like details about their parents and siblings and childhoods. Maybe they’d been too wary of each other at first, or maybe having that kind of conversation would have made a fake thing seem way too  _ real.  _ Regardless, it’s clear now that they’re not going to be able to make this work without getting a little more involved with each other’s lives, even if the very idea of Oliver Queen and Donna Smoak interacting makes Felicity’s insides go fluttery. But an  _ uneasy _ kind of fluttery -- nervous  _ bad _ , not nervous  _ good _ . 

Which doesn’t change the fact that Oliver and Donna are going to meet, and he needs to be prepared for what that means. He needs to be prepared for  _ Donna _ .  _ Frak _ .

Felicity takes a slow breath, trying to collect her thoughts. “My mom is,” Felicity hesitates, “my mom.” It doesn’t explain anything, and Felicity knows it. She sighs and tries again. “She’s a lot. She talks as much as me.”

For some reason, that’s when everything seems to click for Oliver. “She doesn’t know about our...  _ arrangement _ ,” he surmises, “and she wants to meet her daughter’s boyfriend.”

“Yes,” Felicity says. “Exactly! It’s terrible.”

“It’s not terrible,” he answers, but if she didn’t know better, she’d think he sounds a bit rattled. “Though, historically, I haven’t done that well impressing the parents.”

“Oh, she’ll love you,” Felicity says, dismissing his concerns out of hand. “You’re gorgeous and successful, which--” She stops, wrinkling her nose in embarrassment, because  _ why _ does she keep saying things out loud that are supposed to remain in her strange little brain? “I mean,  _ objectively _ you’re considered quite handsome,” she covers, ignoring the huff of laughter from him. “You’re very fit. And I mean, you’ve been in  _ how _ many of  _ People’s _ sexiest man alive issues? Like,  _ all _ of them? So clearly your features are pleasing. Generally. To the public.”

He’s laughing outright now. “Good to know I have pleasing features.”

“Do not tease me, Oliver Queen, this is serious business!” Felicity answers. “She wants to have dinner! In public!”

There’s a strange pause after her words, and then Oliver says, in a surprisingly earnest tone, “I won’t embarrass you, Felicity.”

Felicity blinks. “I didn’t-- That’s not-- My  _ mom _ is the embarrassing one!” She feels herself getting tangled up in her racing thoughts and pauses. “Three, two, one. It’s not you, Oliver. I’m worried that my mom will be overwhelming and excitable and, you know,  _ loud _ , and that will scare you off -- which would be totally understandable -- and all of it will be caught on someone’s cameraphone and then broadcast on  _ Access Hollywood _ !” She stops talking abruptly, pressing her lips together to prevent even  _ more _ of her unfiltered panic from tumbling out.

After a moment, Oliver answers, “I don’t scare easily.” He sounds calm -- the  _ opposite _ of panicked, actually. Like he’s trying to reassure her. “Listen, Felicity, I’ll be on my best behavior, and if some cellphone pictures end up on a gossip site, well, that just keeps us on track. Right?”

She’s torn between being touched by his attempts to make her believe it’ll go fine, and a little irritated that he’s being so reasonable about meeting Donna Smoak. Felicity sighs loudly. “Sure. Fine. Why not plan a humiliating dinner?”

He says her name on a laugh. “It’s going to be fine.” 

She makes a strange little  _ harrumph _ ing sound -- which, what is  _ wrong  _ with her? -- but doesn’t answer. 

Oliver hesitates for a moment. “Is something else bothering you, Felicity?”

“Other than my crippling inability to write music?” She responds without thinking it through. “Nope, all is well.” Oliver makes a noncommittal humming sound, and Felicity just keeps talking. “Really, I’m good. Peachy, even. Though I’ve never understood that turn of phrase -- are peaches somehow happier or less stressed than other fruits?” she wonders. “If I had to guess, I’d say strawberries are the happiest, just out there in the sun being all bright red and juicy and--” Wincing, Felicity stops herself. “I don’t know why I’m talking about happy fruit.”

“You have writer’s block?” Oliver prompts. 

She groans at the reminder. “Right. It’s too bad there’s not a market for songs about happy fruit.” It’s not a bad idea for a summery song with, like, picnic metaphors, but Felicity isn’t the person to write that kind of thing anymore.

“Does that happen a lot?” Oliver asks. “Writer’s block, I mean.”

Felicity’s happy fruits train of thought derails abruptly. “Uh.” She frowns, considering the question. “Not really. I mean, it didn’t used to happen at all. Writing music has always been pretty freeing for me, from when I was eight years old.” She laughs, the simple melody and ridiculous lyrics of  _ The Giraffe Song  _ ringing in her memory. “The first song I wrote was about the big giraffe statue in the lobby of the casino my mom worked at.”

“You wrote a song about a giraffe statue?” he repeats, amusement clear in his voice. 

“I was  _ eight _ ,” she reiterates.

“Still, I’d love to hear that one.”

“Sorry, but that one didn’t make the cut for any of my albums,” she answers, shifting a little on the couch to get comfortable. “Though I  _ did _ post it to my YouTube channel right when I signed with Dig. Like a fun little thank you to my fans who helped me get to that point.” Oliver doesn’t answer for a moment, and she can hear rustling on his end of the phone. She sits upright, panicked. “Do  _ not _ go looking for  _ The Giraffe Song _ !”

His laugh echoes down the line. “I’m not,” he answers, but his tone is so smug and self-satisfied that she  _ knows _ there’s more to his answer. “I’m just asking Thea to send it to me. I’m not sure I mentioned it before, but she’s a big fan of yours.”

Felicity is too busy hiding under a bright purple throw pillow to answer with anything more than a muffled huff of exasperation. It’s a simplistic song, obviously, and the lyrics are very rhyme-y and, well, clever for a precocious  _ eight-year-old _ , but it’s not exactly the image she wants to project to Oliver. Which is something she is  _ not _ going to think any more about.

“Ah,” Oliver continues, sounding delighted, “here it is.” 

“Why?” Felicity whines into the pillow, listening to the tinny, familiar strains of that stupid song and Oliver’s happy laugh as he watches. “This is humiliating.”

“Oh, please,” Oliver interrupts, “you’re  _ adorable _ . How old were you when you posted this?”

“Sixteen,” she answers grumpily. “I had nearly half a million followers on my music channel, and I was finally able to announce that I’d gotten an agent, which felt like the  _ biggest _ deal in the world at that point.”

“It wasn’t?” Oliver asks, and she remembers that, although they’re both in entertainment, the movie industry and the music industry are very, very different.

Felicity considers her answer, because her story isn’t really typical. “I mean, in terms of the industry, it’s a necessary step, but there are tons of artists with agents who never get signed to major labels, or indie labels, or even progress any further than self-funded club tours. The thing that really launched me from unknown into the industry was signing with Helix Records, but looking back, I think getting Dig to sign me is the best thing I ever did.”

Oliver mulls that over for a moment, and it’s quiet on his end, so the giraffe song must have ended. Thank God. 

“ _ Getting _ him to sign you?” Oliver echoes, clearly picking up on her turn of phrase.

Felicity laughs. “Well, my traditional attempts to get an agent’s attention didn’t go very far,” she explains. “I mailed actual CDs, I sent MP3s and links to my YouTube channel, but some Vegas teenager with more pop stardom ambition than sense wasn’t terribly interesting to most of them. Cisco Ramon and I were already friends,” she pauses to make sure Oliver knows who Cisco is.

“He... produces, right? Rap and R&B?” Oliver asks.

“Exactly. He’s an incredibly talented producer, with a great ear for beats. But he was still making money DJing and putting his tracks on YouTube looking for his break. So we collaborated on a couple songs. I can play a few instruments, but I am nowhere near coordinated enough to play drums. Once we had a couple songs ready to go, I…” she pauses, pursing her lips as she considers how best to phrase her less than legal actions. “I may have done a little technical snooping so that I could send the files to Diggle’s personal address, along with a mostly harmless little bit of code to ensure the songs would automatically play as soon as he opened the email, whether or not he clicked the links.”

Oliver is silent for a moment. “You... you  _ hacked _ your way into an agent?”

Felicity grins outright. “Hacking is such an ugly word.”

He’s laughing again, the sound warm and enthusiastic. “And Diggle signed you instead of suing you?”

“Well, he definitely threatened to sue me a little bit at the beginning,” she concedes, remembering those first contentious phone calls between the two. “But I promised to provide a little free technical consulting to make sure the same thing couldn’t happen again, and he agreed. I tweaked a security program for him and Lyla, and eventually, he flew to Vegas to meet me and my mother, and I signed with him. Cisco ended up signing with Dig, too.”

There’s a comfortable silence between them as Oliver digests her story.

“You and Diggle seem unusually close for an artist and an agent,” he observes eventually.

“You know when you meet someone and you just click with them?” she asks. “Like, you feel like you were always meant to be friends?”

“In my experience, that’s pretty rare,” Oliver says. “But, yeah, it’s happened a couple times.”

“That’s what it was like with me and Diggle. He’s the big brother I never had, and hugely improved my songwriting. He plays saxophone -- did you know that? -- and his musical background makes him an invaluable sounding board. He taught me to believe in my own voice. Once I signed with Helix, I moved to Starling to record my first album. My mom -- we  _ definitely  _ couldn’t afford to maintain two households, so Dig and Lyla took me in. I lived with them for almost a year and a half.” She shrugs, even though Oliver can’t see her. “They’re family.”

There’s a distinct wistfulness in Oliver’s voice when he comments, “That sounds really nice. You’re pretty lucky, Felicity.”

“Yeah.” Felicity hesitates. “I gather you and your last agent didn’t really see eye-to-eye all the time,” she ventures. She’d also heard a lot of rumors about a romantic -- or maybe just sexual -- relationship between Oliver and Isabel Rochev, but Felicity’s pretty sure she doesn’t want to hear  _ anything _ about that. Ick. 

When Oliver laughs this time it’s bitter and cynical, a discordant note in their warm conversation. “You could say that. Isabel’s number one priority is Isabel, and when my priority was making big money to prove to my parents that I made the right decision dropping out of college to be an actor, our goals were aligned. Biggest paycheck meant biggest budget movie, which, in Hollywood, means either a franchise or a summer action flick with lots of explosions. I think I started to want to change, to do better when my dad died, but I didn’t really know where to start. Even before Thea overdosed, Isabel and I...” he pauses, and Felicity can hear him shifting on the other end, “we clashed. For a lot of reasons, some of them more personal than professional.”

He sounds uncomfortable, and, yeah, that’s confirmation of something she really didn’t want to know. All she can bring herself to do is hum somewhat noncommittally.

Oliver’s voice is quiet when he speaks again. “I’ve made a lot of stupid decisions. I was incredibly selfish, but I’m trying to be a better man.”

Felicity’s heart goes out to him. She can tell he’s sincere about his desire to do better, and she really doesn’t want to throw his mistakes in his face. So she says, “I’ve only known you for a little while, but you seem to be a good man to me.”

He exhales roughly, then murmurs, “Thank you.”

This time, the silence between them is heavy and confessional. And awkward. 

Definitely awkward.

And Felicity does  _ bad _ with awkward.

Her brain spins up in reaction to her discomfort, searching for an appropriate topic, skipping around until she’s  _ sure _ she’s going to blurt something inane about the Kentucky Derby or about how cheetahs are the largest of the big cats who purr.

“I admire your ability,” Oliver says, leaving Felicity gaping like a fish. Because what? “Acting is interpretive,” he continues. “There’s some creation, but that’s mostly the writers and the directors. We’re basically their marionettes. But you’re creating something out of nothing. That’s... It’s impressive, Felicity.”

God, the way he says her name is dangerous, and she has never been good at accepting compliments. Or believing them. “Please, I’ve written dozens of fluffy, happy, swirly pop songs,” she responds, minimizing her success and her artistic output.

“You’ve created songs that millions of people know and love,” Oliver counters. “That’s incredible.”

There’s a warmth in her chest, and her cheeks feel flushed, and Felicity is really not sure how to respond to what sounds like his genuine admiration. So she deflects. “You’ve created dozens of characters that people know and love.”

“I’ve worked out obsessively and done dozens of water cuts and oiled myself up and taken my shirt off,” Oliver dismisses. “ _ That’s _ what most people like about me.”

“That’s not what I like about you,” she answers without thinking. “I mean, not that I  _ dislike _ your abs or your arms or-- Uh--” She’s stammering, unable to get words out. She takes a breath and boils down her thoughts to the most basic point: “You’re very nice to look at, but that’s not why I like you.” 

“You like me?” he asks, and there’s a strange vulnerability to the question that leaves her breathless. Is it possible that this man -- this man who won the genetic lottery  _ and _ was born with a billion-dollar spoon in his mouth  _ and _ who became famous and successful off of his own talents -- genuinely doesn’t believe himself to be likeable? 

“Of course,” she assures him. 

“Oh.” The hint of disbelief, of doubt that she can hear in this one syllable makes her heart ache for him. 

Felicity remembers the semi-cryptic comments from Diggle about Oliver putting his life back together, and she thinks about the self-critical comments Oliver himself has made, and she realizes that he holds himself accountable for his past transgressions. And maybe he doesn’t like himself very much. 

“Of course I like you, Oliver,” she reiterates. She’s a little surprised by how much she means this -- she  _ does _ like him, despite how much she’d originally  _ disliked _ him based on that first drunken meeting years ago. He can still turn on that effortless charm, still play the part of the ne’er-do-well rich boy, but she understands that to be a mask he wears from time to time. But the older, wiser Oliver that she’s gotten to know at least a little bit over the past weeks -- he’s kind and occasionally funny, and not even close to the egotistical asshat that she’d expected. 

“Uh,” he says, sounding hesitant. “That’s-- Thank you.”

She laughs, breaking the strange tension, because now he sounds kind of like  _ her _ trying to react to unexpected praise. It’s a surprising thing for her to have in common with a massively successful, incredibly gorgeous movie star, but maybe they understand each other pretty well despite how different their lives and careers and industries are. 

“It’s not a compliment, Oliver,” she tells him. “It’s the truth.”

The conversation lightens after that. Oliver asks her what it was like living with Dig and Lyla, and she asks what it was liking growing up here in Starling, since she’s a transplant. They compare notes on LA -- where she’s spent a few months at a time, and he lived for ten years -- and talk about their favorite spots to visit. Turns out, they both love Croatia, and while she found Hong Kong overwhelming, Oliver  _ swears _ she’ll love it if she gives it another shot. She tells him about the cat that lives in the little secondhand bookstore tucked in the corner of the French Quarter, which sends them off talking about pets they’ve had.

By the time the conversation trails off and they say their goodbyes, Felicity’s terrible mood has dissipated. It’s surprising to her that he’s had such a positive impact on her day. She doesn’t get into funks very often, but when she does, they tend to linger a while. 

She pours herself a glass of Shiraz and stands in her living room, considering whether to watch a movie or maybe marathon a TV show. But she ends up drifting back to her music studio and picking up her favorite guitar. 

Three hours later, she flips on the recording software and lays down a demo for a freshly written song. It’s about uncertainty and self doubt, and how hard it is to live up to expectations.

She calls it  _ Better _ .

 

END CHAPTER

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

\---

“Which suit are you wearing?” Thea’s asks, her tinny voice floating out over his phone’s speaker while Oliver stands in front of his closet mirror, fidgeting with his clothes.

“The dark gray one,” he replies, adjusting his collar for what feels like the hundredth time. No matter what he does, he can’t seem to make it settle correctly. It just stands up stiffly, practically yelling _this man is a preppy asshole who isn’t even good enough to be in a fake relationship with your daughter._

Thea makes a noncommittal noise, and Oliver starts to feel a little desperate. “What, you think the dark gray is too formal for dinner at a bar?”

“Too formal for meeting your girlfriend’s mother for the first time? When was the last time you met a girlfriend’s parents? Have you _ever_ met someone’s parents?” Thea asks, very unhelpfully as far as he’s concerned. She’s right, of course, but his historic lack of success in this particular area is not exactly _helping_ with the strange, jittery feeling in his chest.

“I’ve met parents before,” Oliver shoots back, but he doesn’t add that the last time was probably in high school. And went poorly, because he was an arrogant dumbass in high school. That sour memory only encourages the odd anxiety he’s feeling about the evening. “And you know Felicity isn’t my girlfriend.”

“Right,” Thea says, drawing the word out. “Felicity’s not your girlfriend, so you’re totally _not_ freaking out over what her mom will think of you.”

He takes a deep, calming breath. “I’m not freaking out. But Donna doesn’t know about our... _arrangement_ , so we have to sell it. And I promised Felicity that tonight would go smoothly.” He pauses for a second, then yanks at his collar one more time. “Should I wear a tie?” he wonders, frowning at his image in the mirror.

“No. No tie,” Thea says immediately. “You almost never wear a tie, adding one tonight will come off weird, especially in pictures. Just wear the jacket, then if the dinner feels casual enough, you can always take it off.” Then, in an effortless transition, she goes back to being annoying. “So you’re freaking out about meeting Felicity’s mom because you’re just... being friendly. No other reason.”

“Thea. I’m not freaking out.” To prove the point, he gives up on the offending clothing and grabs his phone, carrying it out with him as he gets his wallet and keys. And so what if his voice comes out a little too strident, and maybe in a higher key than he’s entirely comfortable with. “Yes, Felicity and I are friends, and I want her and Donna to be comfortable tonight.”

“You mean you want her mom to like you because you like _Felicity_. Admit it, Ollie. The truth will set you free,” she sing-songs.

He shakes his head at her antics. “On that note, thanks for your help Speedy, but I have to go.”

“Now?” she asks quizzically. “Didn’t you say your dinner was at eight? You still have like an hour.”

“Yeah, but I need to stop and pick up Donna’s gift before I get Felicity, and I don’t want to be late,” Oliver says absently as he locks the door behind himself.

There’s silence on Thea’s end, just enough time for Oliver to realize his mistake. “Wait, wait, wait,” she says, sounding delighted. “You got a _gift_ for your _fake girlfriend’s mother_ , whom you’re probably never going to see again?”

He feels the back of his neck warm, although he honestly doesn’t know why he’s embarrassed. He learned proper etiquette young, and just because he spent his twenties being a boorish ass doesn’t mean he’s forgotten the social niceties instilled in him by his mother. “It’s just a hostess gift, Speedy. We’re meeting in her bar. It’s customary.”

“Ollie,” Thea says, with laughter in her voice, “how can I persuade you to leave the line open all night?”

He wrenches his car door open irritably. “Not happening. I’ll call you later.”

“Have a nice date!” she chirps, disconnecting the call before he can answer.

Oliver slides into the driver’s seat of his BMW, pausing to tuck his phone into the inner pocket of his jacket, then puts the conversation out of his mind before he can talk himself out of picking up his order at Starling’s trendiest art boutique.

& & &

When Oliver pulls up to Felicity’s building, she’s out of the glass doors before he puts the car in neutral and engages the emergency brake. She’s stunning, her lavender hair falling in loose waves to her shoulders, which are left mostly bare by the deep maroon halter dress she’s wearing. He doesn’t have long to admire her, since she’s walking quickly towards him before he can even round the hood of his car. “I was going to come up,” he says, but Felicity is already shaking her head.

“This is such a bad idea,” she announces as she reaches him, and he realizes she’s practically twitching with nervous energy.

“Felicity,” he begins, searching for the right thing to say to calm her down, but she looks stunning, and he sort of halts in place as she lays a hand on his bicep and leans up to kiss him hello like that’s something they do.

Her lips are warm and soft against his, and she pulls away far too soon, leaving Oliver uncertain exactly how to react. “Terrible idea,” she continues, turning to the car, seemingly completely unaffected. “It’s going to be a disaster.”

Still a bit flustered, Oliver recovers enough to scramble around her, pulling the door open and holding it for her. “I told you, we’ll be fine.”

She _hmphs_ , fussing with the metallic purse in her hands, so he gently closes the door and lopes back around the car to the driver’s side, his mind whirring with questions -- do they kiss hello now? Even without any obvious observers around? He’s not _against_ the idea, but he’s definitely uncertain about what the ground rules are at this point.

Which they should probably talk about, but as soon as he closes the door beside him, she says, “I’m sorry about my mother.”

Oliver turns a puzzled look her way. “She hasn’t done anything.”

Felicity’s laugh is nervous and a little high-pitched. “Oh, she will.” Her fingers tap against her purse. “She always does. That’s kind of her thing.” Off of his confused look, she waves vaguely at the windshield. “We should just go. Get this over with.”

The car is a stick shift, so he can’t hold her hand, but he really wants to. Somehow, her visible nervousness helps calm his own. He’s been in his own head, unable to pinpoint why he’s so anxious, or why this feels like it _matters_ so much. But he is happy to put all that aside to focus on Felicity, because he understands how difficult family dynamics can be, and the last thing he wants to do is screw anything up for her. He just wishes he could think of something to say to reassure her.

The short drive goes by mostly in silence, except for the staccato of her heel tapping energetically against the floormat. The anxious, repetitive motion should annoy him, and from any other woman it would, but from her he finds it somehow endearing.

He can practically hear Thea’s needling voice in his head. _You_ like _Felicity. Admit it, Ollie. The truth will set you free._ He shakes his head impatiently, letting out a small, involuntary grunt of irritation.

Slightly flustered, he glances over at Felicity to make sure she hadn’t noticed, but she’s watching him. She gives him a strained smile that seems to communicate both apology and commiseration, and he’s not sure what to say. What would he tell her? _It’s not your mother’s future behavior that’s freaking me out, I’m just so nervous about meeting her that I needed my sister’s help to dress myself tonight and now I swear I can_ hear _her goading me about my feelings for you._

It sounds just as crazy in his head as it would out loud, so instead he shrugs a bit helplessly. “Sorry. Just a little headache.”

“Oh. Do you want to cancel?” Felicity perks up, half-turning to face him more fully, eyes wide and bright with sudden hope. “My mom would understand.”

Oliver huffs a laugh. Somehow he knows instinctively that her mother wouldn’t. “No, I’ll be fine.”

She smiles ruefully. “Rats.” His grin doesn’t fully recede in the quiet that follows. When she speaks again, her voice is softer, almost hesitant. “You look very handsome tonight, Oliver.”

He can’t help his reaction -- a strange mix of embarrassment, pride, and that loopy nervous feeling in his stomach that she inspires. He’s pretty sure he’s blushing. “Thanks,” he answers, then ventures a compliment of his own. “You’re beautiful,” he tells her, not bothering to qualify his statement with a time period, since it seems to him to be some sort of universal constant.

When he looks over at her again, she’s looping a stray curl behind her ear and smiling down at her purse. “Thank you,” she answers, catching his gaze for just a moment before turning to look out the window.

The rest of the relatively quick ride passes in silence.

Oliver pulls to a stop behind a car in the valet lane in front of _Paroli_ and glances over at her. Her fingers are twisted into a knot in her lap, and he reaches over to wrap his hand gently around her wrist, rubbing his thumb over the soft skin there. “We’ll be fine. Let’s just have a good time.”

She sends him a humorous, disbelieving look, and he wants her to explain why she’s so scared, so certain that this will go badly. But she just nods and gets carefully out of the car. He grabs the shiny gift bag from the backseat and follows her.

Oliver accepts the claim ticket from the valet and joins Felicity on the sidewalk, turning towards the door. _Paroli_ is on the main floor of an impressive old brick building, which in another life had been the City Water Works, according to the inscribed stone above the doors. Tall, arched windows line the building, so that customers inside have an open view of the bay and boardwalk, and, more importantly, so that passersby have a view of those dining inside.

As Oliver and Felicity climb the small set of steps to the door, there’s a strange hush, followed by excited chattering and flashes from a few cellphone cameras. Their appearance here tonight hasn’t been publicized, so at this point, it’s just a few random strangers who happen to have recognized them. But he knows the pictures will hit Twitter or Instagram, and the paparazzi will be there to greet them on their way home. That kind of thing is pretty unavoidable for him these days.

He holds the door and lets Felicity step inside first, following her closely. The interior of _Paroli_ is a study in exposed brick, dark wood, and warm, recessed lighting -- an oddly coherent mix of old Starling architecture and wholly modern furniture.

Before Oliver’s eyes can fully adjust to the warm but dim lighting inside _Paroli_ , a high-pitched squeal rings out over the piped in music, and a bright blue dynamo appears, pulling Felicity into a fierce hug.

“Baby girl,” the woman who can only be Donna Smoak chirps, “I’m so happy you’re here.” When she pulls back from Felicity, turning her attention to Oliver, he can immediately see the resemblance between the two women.

Donna is beautiful, obviously, and exudes the same genuine enthusiasm and natural warmth as her daughter. Her bright blonde hair falls down her back in big waves, and she’s wearing a... _very_ fitted dress, with corset detailing and the resultant abundance of cleavage. Oliver keeps his attention very carefully on Donna’s face.

“You must be Oliver!” Donna chirps, and he tries to recover his faculties, smiling and offering his free hand.

Donna Smoak is not at all what Oliver expected, having been raised by the perfectly coiffed Moira Queen, whose default setting has always been low heels, sheer nylons, and an exquisitely tailored suit in neutral tones. Donna is... the opposite, and Oliver is, at the very least, out of his depth with Donna. He’s not sure how to react, or how to make what he knows of Felicity fit with his first impression of the woman in front of him.

But she’s beaming at him, and he finds himself charmed by her unabashed enthusiasm. “Ms. Smoak, it’s a pleasure--”

She bats his proffered hand to the side and steps closer, pulling him into a brief, enthusiastic hug. When she releases him, she reaches up and pats his cheek. “You’re even more handsome in person!”

“Mom,” Felicity interjects sharply. She’s smiling tensely, glancing at the curious bystanders watching this fateful first meeting, and Oliver suspects she’s searching for surreptitious camera phones. Oliver shifts closer to her, sliding his free hand down her spine. The softness of her bare skin under his fingertips feels a little too intimate, so he drops his hand lower to rest his hand against the small of her back, which is safely covered by the fabric of her dress.

“Felicity,” Donna protests, sounding crestfallen, “it’s a compliment.”

Before the conversation can devolve, a perky hostess taps the menus in her hand and asks, “Would you like me to show you to your table?”

The distraction works, and by the time they’re settled in the U-shaped booth -- Oliver in the middle, flanked by Felicity and Donna -- he’s managed to regain some of his equilibrium. He remembers the gift in the small, silver bag still gripped tightly in his hand. “Ms. Smoak--”

“Oh, hon, call me Donna!” she interrupts cheerfully.

Oliver nods once. “Donna, then, I--”

“Good evening,” a waiter appears out of nowhere, grinning at them, “and welcome to _Paroli_!” Frank introduces himself and is about to launch into the required introductory patter when Donna waves him off.

“Drinks?” Donna asks, her gaze flicking between Oliver and Felicity.

Oliver defers to Felicity with a questioning look.

“Yes,” Felicity answers with an emphatic nod. “ _Definitely_ , yes, Frank. Pinot Noir. Bring the bottle, please. You can put it right here.” She taps the space beside her waiting wine glass, then turns to Oliver expectantly.

He can’t help but grin at her. “Is the entire bottle for you, or will you share with others?” he teases. Honestly, he finds the thought of a warm and flushed and tipsy Felicity intriguing.

She purses her lips. “I mean, I guess?” she decides, somewhat grumpily. “We can share -- I can always order another bottle.” Felicity sits back with a bright, fake smile on her face and her attention carefully directed at the menu in front of her.

Oliver glances at Donna, because he’s getting the feeling he’s missing something between the two Smoak women.

Donna’s mouth tightens, but she turns to Frank and says, “Bring us the Ata Rangi and three glasses, please.”

Frank agrees and retreats, leaving them in an awkward silence. Felicity’s gaze darts nervously between him and her mother, and Oliver knows she’s either at a loss for something to say, or desperately trying not to blurt out the reality of their situation. So far, Donna seems perfectly nice, if a bit over the top, and he can’t quite understand why Felicity is so wound up about him meeting her mother.

Worrying about her mother meeting _him_ would make total sense to Oliver, because he is -- to the public, at least -- the epitome of that irresponsible, selfish asshole that no parent would want for their child. And, yeah, his collar is feeling a little tight again, but he resists the urge to tug on it.

Oliver shifts, turning to Donna, determined to keep his promise to Felicity that this dinner would go well. “I, uh,” he pauses, his mouth feeling weirdly dry as he remembers his sister’s glee and wonders if he’s made a mistake with this gesture. He swallows hard and continues, “I brought you a little something.” Lifting the gift bag, he places it on the table between them.

“A present?” Donna brightens, clapping her hands together.

“Yes.” Oliver glances at Felicity, who looks confused but also maybe touched. “For agreeing to host us here in your lovely restaurant,” he explains for the benefit of both Smoak women.

“Thank you so much!” Donna shoots Felicity an impressed look. “What a thoughtful man you’ve got,” she says, pulling the bag closer.

Felicity nods in an oddly resigned fashion, but doesn’t comment aloud. When Oliver catches her eye, she just shrugs, obviously still somewhat at a loss. He reaches over, laying his hand on hers without really thinking about what he’s doing. Her body language eases incrementally, and she flips her hand over beneath his, squeezing back.

And suddenly they’re holding hands. Oliver could write it off to keeping up appearances, except that she’s holding on to him with some gusto. He doesn’t have time to analyze further before Donna squeals in excitement.

“Oh, look at this little cutie!” She pulls the small ceramic turtle from the gift bag and grins at it. “Felicity, doesn’t she look like--”

“Jerome,” Felicity nods, studying the small turtle with interest. Much like Felicity’s kitchen frog, the little turtle Oliver bought for Donna is colored in vivid, shiny greens, except for the jaunty royal purple bow around her neck. “She looks like she could be Jerome’s best little turtle friend.” Felicity gives Oliver a soft, contemplative look, and his chest tightens with a feeling he can’t quite name.

“It’s the same artist,” Oliver explains. “I wasn’t sure what you would like, Donna, but Felicity’s frog--”

“Jerome,” Felicity corrects, her eyes shining with amusement.

Oliver huffs a laugh. “ _Jerome_ is bright and cheerful and reminds me of Felicity, so I just thought...” He trails off with a shrug. His feelings for Felicity are pretty confusing, and he can’t possibly explain any of it to her mother in a convincing fashion. Or maybe what’s silencing him is the fear he would be _too_ convincing in his affection, which might make Felicity realize that he’s attracted to her. Very attracted to her. He might even have some feelings for her that are a bit too expansive to fit into the “Just Friend” box. And the last thing he wants is to make her uncomfortable.

“Thank you, Oliver,” Donna says, and the bubbly excitement is gone from her tone, replaced by a warm note of acceptance. She sets the small, bright green tortoise down on the table in front of her, and strokes the glossy shell lightly. “She’s very cute. And I do love Jerome,” she adds, somewhat mischievously.

Felicity snaps to attention beside Oliver, and says warningly, “Mom.”

“What?” Donna asks, eyes wide and unconvincingly innocent. “Oliver should really know about Jerome. And Jasper. And James and Jared and--”

“ _Moooom_ ,” Felicity brings her fingertips to her forehead, hiding her face.

Oliver tries to hold back a grin at her reaction, but he can’t quite manage it. “Do you only date guys with names that start with the letter ‘J’?” he wonders.

“No!” the Smoak women answer together, but Felicity snaps the word out, while Donna’s denial is more of an amused drawl. And Donna adds, “Obviously,” with a pointed look at him.

Oliver looks back and forth between mother and daughter, confused. “Then who are all of those--?”

“They weren’t guys, they were my stuffed animals when I was a kid. I named my froggy stuffed animals,” Felicity explains, the words tumbling out. “It was kind of a _thing_ , and, you know,” she sings, “ _Jeremiah was a bullfrog_?”

The juxtaposition between her exasperated look and the sweetness of her singing voice has got Oliver smiling so wide his cheeks ache. “I know the song.”

“Right. So. I loved that song when I was little,” she continues, “and I thought I loved frogs. Well, no, I _did_ love frogs until an incident at the petting zoo,” she shudders. “Did you know they feel like... _damp squishy leather_ when you touch them?” She shivers again, more violently this time, and her grip on his hand tightens. He absently strokes his thumb gently against her skin. “Still wigs me out. But,” she continues, waving off his bemused concern, “I definitely loved _stuffed animal_ frogs. Probably because that particular shade of _stuffed animal lime green_ was my favorite color for a while. When I was really little, maybe four or five years old?” She pauses, glancing at Donna for confirmation.

“It was your fifth birthday,” Donna explains with shimmering eyes and a proud smile.

“Right,” Felicity says. “On my fifth birthday, my Bubbe got me a big, lime green frog with these shiny button eyes, and I got it in my head that Jasper needed a ‘J’ name because of Jeremiah, and,” she shrugs helplessly, “then it was a whole thing.”

Oliver nods. “So then Jasper and Jared.”

“And Jeffrey,” Donna interjects, clasping her hands together. “Jeffrey was her favorite. A little boy in her second grade class gave it to her.”

“Mom,” Felicity objects, but her tone is resigned, like she knows this is a losing battle.

But Frank the waiter arrives with the bottle of wine and Felicity perks right back up, nodding eagerly when he offers the cork and then pours her a small amount for her evaluation. Her attention is wholly focused on the wine, and she doesn’t appear to notice sliding her hand from Oliver’s, but he certainly feels the loss. Felicity downs the first sip of pinot noir quickly, and sets her glass back on the table, nudging it towards Frank. “Yes, please,” she says. “More of that. Thank you.”

Frank serves the wine with deft efficiency. Then he eyes the unopened menus still lying where he placed them and withdraws quietly.

“So!” Donna says, fixing a curious gaze on Oliver. “Tell me about yourself, Oliver.”

Oliver’s stomach drops, because he’s not sure what possible part of his life before the last year or so is appropriate to share in this context. His terrible behavior as a privileged rich kid? His years on the Hollywood party scene? The _real_ first time he met Felicity and was an unmitigated jackass to her?

“Well,” Felicity interjects, holding her wine glass protectively close to her chest, even as she gives Oliver an encouraging look, “he has _terrible_ taste in TV because he’s been a giant movie snob for so long -- which, by the way, is _quite_ ridiculous considering the quality of some of his own movies--”

“Hey,” Oliver protests mildly. He doesn’t understand how she can tease him and put him at ease all at the same time.

Felicity grins at him, then turns back to her mother. “But I’m working on helping him refine his tastes.”

& & &

Dinner passes less stressfully than Oliver thought it might at the outset. Donna is curious and blunt, but she, like her daughter, is kind. Despite his worries that he’d need to spend quite a bit of time apologizing for his well-documented past shitty behavior, Donna manages to get him to let down his guard, to stop weighing each word as they talk.

By the time their meals arrive, Oliver and Donna are animatedly discussing the relative merits of a few luxury Vegas casinos. Despite Felicity’s slightly quieter than normal demeanor and her wine intake, he’s feeling pretty good about how dinner’s going. Maybe he’s not so terrible at this after all.

“You grew up here in Starling, right?” Donna asks, jarring Oliver out of his thoughts.

“Ah, yes,” he answers. “My sister and I grew up here. My mother -- she sold our childhood home after my father passed away.” Whatever else he means to say gets caught up in his throat, tangled up in the familiar dull ache of grief and regret. He and his father hadn’t been particularly close, especially not once Oliver “rejected” the family business and moved to LA to pursue acting full time, but that distance had actually made accepting his death even harder. Oliver will never have the chance to make things right. He’ll never get the opportunity to make his father proud.

“I’m sorry,” Donna murmurs, just as Felicity’s small hand closes over his on the table top.

Oliver looks between the two of them, smiling tightly. “Thank you. It’s been a few years, so I mostly remember the better times these days.”

There’s a brief lull, and Oliver’s attention is drawn to Felicity’s aquamarine fingernails shining cheerfully against his skin. He shifts his thumb, gently squeezing her fingers in wordless thanks. He chooses not to examine this new hand-holding they’ve taken up.

“You know,” Donna says brightly, “I met your sister once.”

Oliver sees Felicity freeze out of the corner of his eye. And, well -- he can understand why. Given Thea’s history, he’s a little worried himself about what could’ve made meeting Thea so memorable for Donna. He looks around again, and beyond the cleared tables Donna thoughtfully kept empty as a buffer between them and the other patrons, he doesn’t see anyone paying attention to them at the moment.

“Oh?” he asks with studied nonchalance.

“I did, she came into the bar for dinner once with some other people. I didn’t really care for that group, to be honest, they seemed a little rowdy.” Donna pauses to take a sip of wine, and Oliver’s mind races with all the horrible directions this story may go in, but he can’t think of a polite way to divert Donna’s attention. “They ordered a ton of food that they didn’t eat,” she continues, a Felicity-esque twist of sarcasm in her voice, “and I’m pretty sure most of them weren’t of age. And they made a mess with the napkins. Who tears up napkins for no reason?” she asks, although it’s obviously a rhetorical question.

“Mom,” Felicity says through a forced smile, clearly concerned about where the story is going. “Why don’t we talk about something else?” Her grip on his hand tightens.

Donna glances at Felicity and waves her free hand. “Oh posh, it’s a good story, honey.” She looks back at Oliver, giving him an encouraging smile. He doesn’t know her well enough to read her yet, but he can’t imagine she’d intentionally tell him an awful story about his sister.

“So, they’re here for hours,” Donna continues, gesturing vaguely at the restaurant with her fork, “and I’m worrying that I might have to kick them out because it’s almost closing, so I go over there to, you know, gently move them along. And just as I’m going over to the table, this pale girl with, like, white blond hair, I want to say they called her Bernadette, or-- or Bodea? Something absurd like that?”

“Bardot. Bardot Bowen,” Oliver supplies disdainfully, recognizing Donna’s description. He remembers because, one, she’s Carter Bowen’s sister and Oliver hates Carter Bowen; and two, because he could never understand the Bowen family’s penchant for using last names as first names.

Donna taps a perfectly-manicured, bright pink fingernail on the table. “That’s it. Bardot. Anyway, this Bardot throws some kind of trash on the floor in front of the table. Now, I’ve been _the help_ longer than I’ve been the boss, so I’m used to this. I figured they were just another group of rich teenagers who think they can make whatever kind of mess they want and there’ll always be someone to clean up after them.”

Oliver shifts uncomfortably at Donna’s insight. He’s actively avoiding looking at Felicity now, wondering if she’s thinking _he_ was one of those entitled teenagers. He wouldn’t blame her for thinking so, based on what she knew he was like even a few years ago, but he doesn’t want to see those thoughts reflected in her expressive eyes.

“But then,” Donna continues, seemingly unaware of the new tension at the table, “I hear your sister.” She nods at Oliver. “She tells that Bardot girl -- orders her, actually -- to pick up her own trash. And of course, Bardot refuses, says something like cleaning up is what my staff is paid to do, but your sister’s not having it. She makes them all get up and clean the table, the whole booth. This little whippet of a girl ordering them all around like a general,” Donna says, slapping Oliver’s arm in mirth.

“That sounds like Thea,” Oliver says wryly.

Donna smiles. “The rest of the group, I doubt they learned anything from it,” she says. “They were still pissy to the busboy when they left, but your sister left a huge tip, wrote an apology on the bottom of the receipt. I’ll never forget that.”

His trepidation bleeds away, and steals a quick glance at Felicity, whose grip on his hand hasn’t wavered.

“You were right, Mom,” Felicity says, removing her hand from his and sitting back a little in her seat. She’s smiling at her mother now, a warm, genuine, _Felicity_ smile. “That was a good story.”

& & &

As dinner winds down, Oliver is more than a little surprised to realize they’ve been at their table for more than two hours. All in all, it’s gone better than he could have expected, and he excuses himself to use the restroom and quietly pay the check. Frank refuses to take his money, and since Donna is Frank’s boss, none of Oliver’s arguments work.

When he rejoins the Smoak women, Felicity offers him her hand to help her to her feet. “My turn,” she chirps, and heads to the bathroom with only a little bit of a sway to her steps from the wine.

Still grinning, he turns back to Donna. “Thank you so much for dinner, Donna. You shouldn’t have, and the next time we have dinner, it’s on me.”

“Oh, sure thing, hon.” She waves off his thanks cheerfully. “I didn’t know what to expect tonight, you know.”

And, finally, Oliver considers that maybe Donna has spent the past couple of hours lulling him into a false sense of security. “Oh?” he manages. His throat feels tight, and his heart is pounding.

She gives him a hard look. “I’ve stood in line at the grocery store, Oliver. I’m well aware of your reputation.” He opens his mouth to choke out a defense, or maybe an apology, but she keeps talking. “I’m the mother of one of the most famous women in America, and I’ve seen what the tabloids can do with the kernel of truth. And what they can do with a complete fabrication.”

Oliver nods, but he can’t in good conscience let her believe his reputation was unearned. “Donna,” he begins, then clears his throat. “I-- I wasn’t a very good man. I was selfish and stupid and surrounded by a bunch of stupid, selfish people. I won’t make excuses for that, but if I was still that guy, I would _want_ you to warn me away from your daughter. That guy -- _Ollie_ ,” he practically spits his old nickname, the back of his neck burning with shame, “he wasn’t good enough to hold Felicity’s coat.”

“Oliver,” Donna tries to interject, but he is on a roll.

“I’m not that guy anymore.” God, he hopes she believes him. “Some-- Some things happened in my personal life that finally got through to me, and I’ve spent the past year getting my head straight and trying to figure out the kind of man I want to be. I still probably don’t deserve a woman like Felicity Smoak,” he admits, his chest aching with this unpalatable truth. “But I swear, I’m trying.”

Donna watches him for a long, terrifying moment. “I can see how much you care about her,” she says, and relief rushes through him, followed quickly by the dawning realization that she’s seeing him a bit too clearly for comfort, “and I believe you’re trying.”

Oliver’s not sure that’s he’s fully won her over, but she hasn’t told him to pack up, either. “The last thing I want to do is hurt her.”

Donna opens her mouth to respond, then glances past him and smiles. “My baby girl,” she says, pushing upright to embrace Felicity as she returns to the table.

“Oh,” Felicity says, sounding surprised by the unexpected maternal hug. “Hi?” She furrows her brow at Oliver, and he shrugs.

“Okay!” Donna says, pulling back and beaming at the two of them. “Dinner was great, but I’m sure you’d both like to go home and get working on dessert.” She gives her daughter an exaggerated wink. “If you know what I mean.”

Felicity wrinkles her nose, her eyes falling shut in mortification. “Mom!” Her cheeks flush an adorable shade of pink, and Oliver finds himself smiling at her.

Donna gives Felicity a sideways hug. “It’s perfectly natural, sweetie. I mean, just look at--”

“Okay!” Felicity interrupts. Loudly.

Oliver’s eyebrows jump up and he slides out of the booth, reaching for Felicity’s hand. “We should get going,” he agrees, ignoring the way his ears are burning a little bit with embarrassment when Donna gives him a knowing smile.

She walks with them over to the entryway, chatting while the valet retrieves Oliver’s BMW. He gets another enthusiastic hug from Donna before they leave, and when he and Felicity step outside, it’s to the familiar sound of paparazzos shouting his name and hers, and the flashes of a dozen cameras.

“Frak,” Felicity mutters, but he puts his arm around her waist and pulls her closer, leading with his shoulder to shield her as much as he can. He helps her into the car, then walks around the trunk, withstanding a barrage of simple and insulting questions from the paparazzi.

“Guys,” Oliver pauses with his hand on the driver’s side door handle. “We’re just trying to have a nice evening, okay?”

“Did her mother give you her blessing? someone shouts.

Oliver knows there’s no good answer to that question, so he gives them a quick smile and a wave, then slides into the BMW and turns up the music. It’s a little tricky to get free of the camera-wielding horde, but he has more than his fair share of experience doing this. It’s still nerve-wracking, and takes all of his attention.

Once they get to the cross street and turn, he accelerates away from the chaos and chances a glance at Felicity. She’s turned a bit towards him, watching him with a small smile. Even in the dim light filtering in from the street, she’s luminous.

He’s in so much trouble.

“What?” he asks.

“So did she?” Felicity asks mischievously.

Oliver blinks. “Did who what?”

“My mother,” she explains, and he realizes she’s talking about that last shouted question. “Did she give you her blessing?”

He doesn’t feel like he could appropriately explain the brief conversation he’d had with Donna in Felicity’s absence, so he answers her query a different way. “Well, she _did_ tell us to go home and have sex, so...”

Felicity snickers and explains dismissively, “That just means she thinks you’re hot and might give me some good orgasms.”

Oliver wheezes a bit on his inhale -- because, damn if her casual words didn’t give him some technicolor mental images -- and spares her a quick, stunned look.

She just laughs harder. “My mom is sex positive. Like, _really_ sex positive. But don’t worry,” she continues, lifting her phone from her lap, “she really did like you.” She’s holding it so he can see the screen, but he can’t make out much -- all he sees is a string of tiny, multicolored objects.

“Are those emojis?” he asks.

“They are,” she agrees. “A _lot_ of emojis, which means she’s very excited. There are some praise hands, some thumbs up, some pink hearts, and a lot of suns.”

Oliver frowns, trying to parse that. “Okay?”

“She gave us her blessing,” Felicity confirms. “And now we _never_ have to do that again.” Her head drops to the headrest and she exhales. “I am so glad we never have to do that again.”

Oliver swallows back the irrational disappointment he feels, because she’s _right_ to be relieved that they don’t have to lie to her mother anymore. “Yeah.”

The rest of the ride passes in silence, which seems to be perfectly comfortable for her, but which makes him want to tear his skin off. At the stoplight a block from her house, she holds her phone up against the window and tells him to smile. He does his best.

When he pulls to a stop at the curb in front of her building, she gives him a genuine smile and leans across the console to kiss him on the cheek. “Thanks for being so good with her. I know she’s a lot.”

“She’s great, Felicity,” he tells her, and he means it. “No thanks needed.”

She nods and reaches for the door handle. “I’ll talk to you later,” she says, then slides out of his car and heads into her building, pausing at the door to give him a little wave.

He waves back, like a complete idiot, and then pulls away from the curb. The evening has given him a lot to process -- about Felicity, and about his complicated feelings for her. He can’t help but think she’s the kind of woman he could be happy with, even though he knows she deserves more than what he could possible offer.

By the time he reaches home, she’s tweeted the picture of them from the car with the caption, “He survived dinner with my mom! Definitely a keeper.” She looks stunning in the shot, her beaming smile foregrounded, while he looks moderately happy over her shoulder. Looking at the picture and the caption, he has no choice but to acknowledge that knot of _something_ in his chest is longing.

Because he’s in a fake relationship with a woman he actually likes. A lot. He wants Donna’s blessing not because it will help their story, but because he wants her to approve of him. He wants Felicity’s friends and family to like him, to believe he’s good for her.

He wants Felicity to post pictures of them because they’re _real_ , not because it’s part of some PR scam.

Oliver slumps onto his couch. “Fuck.”

-30-


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, we're not dead, and neither is this story. ;)

 

 

 

Head held high, Felicity breezes into the Jitters one block down from Oliver’s building in full  _ New Look Felicity Smoak _ style -- dark heeled boots, tight black jeans, and a deep purple shirt with an oversized collar that falls down one shoulder, exposing her bra strap. Her lavender hair is perfectly styled in loose, chunky waves that catch the light, and she’s wearing her unapologetically pink lipstick.

Oh, and she’s got dark, oversized sunglasses on, the kind of sunglasses that scream  _ look at me pretending that I don’t want to be noticed _ . 

She is ready, willing, and able to  _ Be _ .  _ Seen _ . here, and she’s applied her make up in that perfectly understated daytime look for the inevitable selfies.

That familiar hush of recognition falls over the coffee shop as she strolls to the counter and pulls her sunglasses off. She turns a bright smile on the barista and orders two coffees -- her own triple iced latte, and a small cold brew for Oliver. By the time her drinks are ready, Felicity has graciously posed with three eager fans; she stops twice more on her way to the door, holding the two coffee cups  _ juuuuuuuust _ in frame, because, yeah, the barista enthusiastically wrote Oliver’s name on his drink in mostly legible script.

She counts sixteen notification buzzes on her phone on the half-block walk to Oliver’s building, where the doorman ushers her inside quickly. “Good morning, Ms. Smoak,” he greets. “Mr. Queen asked that I put you on the penthouse elevator and send you right up.”

“Great,” she chirps, glancing at his nametag. “Thanks, Dennis! And, please: call me Felicity.”

“You’re very welcome,” he answers, politely sidestepping her request as he summons the penthouse elevator with his RFID-coded security card. 

It’s not until the elevator doors slide shut, leaving her in silence for the twenty story journey, that Felicity realizes she’s kind of nervous. Because she’d basically invited herself to Oliver’s for the day just so that she could be seen  _ arriving at _ Oliver’s, thereby countering the ridiculous breakup stories that had circulated in the aftermath of their dinner with Donna. 

Somehow, they’d missed the paparazzo loitering near her building when Oliver had dropped her off that night. The photo essay of her “sad” expression as she walked to the building entrance and his “angry” departure in the car as he drove away -- photo assumptions of the highest order -- had nearly drowned out all the gossip from patrons of Donna’s restaurant.

And, yes, okay, maybe Felicity had panicked a  _ little _ bit, sending a barrage of texts to John until he called her. He’d employed his mind tricks to calm her down -- she is notoriously giddy over John and Lyla’s impending parenthood, so he’d told her Lyla is carrying a girl, and then Felicity had spent a solid ten minutes alternating between high pitched noises of happiness and wondering about names. Because John is the best, he let her go on for quite a while, which allowed her to make a strong case for Felicity as her sure-to-be goddaughter’s middle name. Once Felicity was calm, John simply suggested she and Oliver do something somewhere public -- lowkey but sure to be photographed -- and gently ended the conversation.

Felicity had promptly texted Oliver that she would be at his place before 11 and would be there all day, then tried to ignore the anxiety in her chest waiting for his eventual response. Which was a frustratingly simple:  _ Sounds good _ .

“Sounds good!” she huffs, irritated all over again. Because how is she supposed to know whether he’s  _ actually _ okay with this plan, or is just making himself accommodate her despite very strong objections? What if he has things he’d rather be doing? Or what if he’d just rather  _ not _ spend much time with her?

“This fake relationship stuff is exhausting,” Felicity mutters as the elevator slows to a stop. Hesitating a bit because she has no audible clues as to the enthusiasm level of his annoyingly vague  _ sounds good _ , she takes a quick, calming breath as the doors open. “Okay.” She steps off the elevator into a short, well-appointed, and very empty hallway, and heads for the only door. “Guess this is the place.”

She’s still ten feet away when the dark wood door opens and Oliver appears, leaning out into the hallway, partially backlit from the natural light in his apartment. She can only see part of his hip and most of his torso, but he’s wearing dark jeans and a charcoal t-shirt, looking every inch the charismatic movie star, all effortless hotness and subtle flexing of biceps. 

Felicity has spent enough time with him at this point that she mostly thinks of him as Oliver, not  _ Celebrity Oliver Queen _ or  _ Impossibly Hot Movie Star Oliver Queen _ or even  _ Former Playboy Oliver Queen _ . Still, sometimes it hits her anew  _ just _ how handsome he is. 

It’s a  _ lot _ . 

“Hey,” Oliver greets with a small smile.

“Hey.” Her voice is a little too high with the combination of all of  _ that _ and also the newness of being in his space, and she tries to modulate it. “Uh, hi. So this is-- Your place is nice!”

Oliver’s grin deepens. “This is the hallway, Felicity.”

She flushes. “It’s still your place. Your  _ building _ . You picked a lovely building.” Oh, yes, that’s _ so _ much better. Ugh. Why is she being so  _ weird _ today? Felicity reaches the threshold and thrusts his cold brew at him. “I brought coffee.”

His smile grows so wide that he’s flashing those perfect teeth. “Thanks. I saw this--” He gently waggles the cup-- “on twitter, so I knew you were bringing gifts.”

“Just doing a little damage control today,” she explains. “John pointed out that if we just keep being seen spending time together, the stupid breakup stuff will go away. So. Yeah. Thanks for letting me come over and bother you.”

“It’s no bother.” Oliver’s expression falters a bit, and he straightens up, stepping back into his apartment. “Come on in.”

“Thanks,” she responds quietly, following him into a large apartment that, on first glance, looks like an  _ Architectural Digest _ spread. Everywhere she looks there are clean lines and modern, stylish (though maybe not super-comfortable) furniture. 

“Wow,” she murmurs, wandering farther into his place, her gaze sliding across the sterile living room and what she can see of the dining room. The walls are coordinating light neutrals, contrasting with the dark wood floors, and there are crisp angles everywhere. None of the furniture is overstuffed or oversized -- even the throw pillows are maintaining improbable geometric perfection. The few carefully placed accent pieces are sleek porcelain and glass objet d’arts featuring smooth arcs and subtle colors.

Oliver’s apartment looks like it would photograph  _ beautifully _ , but she sees nothing of the kind, funny man she’s starting to know. There’s no trace of the personality or preferences of the man who  _ lives  _ here. The whole place feels... impersonal. 

“This is really very... nice,” she tells him, flushing when she realizes how lukewarm the compliment sounds. It  _ is _ nice -- it’s more than nice, actually. It’s gorgeous in an austere kind of way. It just leaves her cold.

“My financial advisor recommended an interior designer.” Oliver shrugs one shoulder, beckoning her towards the large windows. “But I bought this place for the view,” he explains, and when Felicity reaches his side, she can see Starling Bay sparkling down below them. The view is everything his apartment is not -- life and color and vibrancy, with brightly clothed pedestrians and sunbathers circling the bay, and cheerful white yachts bobbing gently at the marina to the left. 

Felicity sips contentedly at her coffee and soaks it in. Her apartment faces mostly south, and she can only really see a small strip of water from her vantage point. Honestly, she’d focused her attention more on the interior -- making her day-to-day living space into a home. She loves all the natural light her apartment gets, and she loves the comfort and contentment she feels when she’s there, but she has to admit that the location of Oliver’s apartment and its orientation is pretty spectacular. “I love this,” she tells him, tracing the bend of the shore on the glass.

“Me, too,” Oliver says. “The rest of this...” 

When Felicity turns to look at him, he’s scanning the somewhat sterile living area. “It’s very well-decorated,” she offers, which is true but fairly faint praise.

Oliver chuckles, but there’s not much warmth or humor to it. “Well-decorated,” he repeats. “Yeah, that’s about it.” He frowns at the ultra-modern settee placed strategically near the corner. “I hate that thing,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “It’s not even comfortable.” He turns an unreadable look her way. “How do you feel about french toast?” 

Felicity blinks, momentarily thrown off by the swift subject change. She rallies quickly, though, because-- “French toast?” she echoes eagerly. “I feel pretty good about french toast, you know, generally.”

He gives one of those little half-laughs of his, but there’s genuine warmth and humor this time, which makes Felicity’s chest feel warm. “Are you hungry?” he asks.

“I’m always hungry,” Felicity answers, then presses her lips together, because  _ why _ does she say the things she says? Sure, she’s got a vast appreciation for food, but Oliver doesn’t need to know that, with his protein shakes and strict gym routine and the long history of beautifully delicate, tall and lanky women on his arm. Not that it matters, since all of this is  _ fake _ , she reminds herself. Even if it doesn’t always  _ feel _ fake.

Oliver leans into her, his elbow gently tapping her upper arm. “C’mon.” 

Feeling oddly off-balance, Felicity follows him through the austere living space and into a kitchen that, despite its predictably modern lines and 90 degree angles, actually has  _ stuff _ in it -- real, human signs of occupancy. There’s a spice rack with several near-empty bottles, a coffee maker with a smattering of bright red ceramic mugs sitting nearby, several mismatched oven mitts lying in wait near the stove, and several large manila envelopes stacked crookedly on the black marble top of the oversized island. 

More than that, Oliver moves through this space with a comfortable sort of familiarity, like he spends a lot of time here.

“This is your favorite room,” she realizes, gravitating towards the island, depositing her small bag and her coffee before slipping onto the barstool to watch him work. She glances around, taking it all in while Oliver rustles through the large refrigerator for supplies. Felicity slides a fingertip along the shiny black marble countertops.

He closes the refrigerator door with his hip and glances at her, a carton of eggs in one hand and a loaf of bread in the other. “Second favorite,” he says with a little shrug. Then that damnable eyebrow of his quirks and he adds, “The bedroom is  _ definitely _ my favorite.” 

There’s nothing salacious in his tone, nothing to suggest that he means anything other than, say, how comfy his bed is for late night reading and restful sleep. Still, Felicity feels the heat bloom in her cheeks. She knows she’s attracted to Oliver -- because  _ duh _ \-- but the rest of what she feels when she’s around him is a jumbled, confusing mess of affection, trepidation, and the rock solid belief that she’s better off without letting her poor, battered heart get involved. 

So she simply hums noncommittally in response, refusing to acknowledge the multiple possible meanings of his comment.

Oliver grins, turning on the burner and prepping to make french toast. Felicity takes the opportunity to watch him. He’s got confident hands, and strong, surprisingly toned forearms. Since when does Felicity notice men’s  _ forearms _ ?

She shakes herself out of it. “I didn’t know you could cook?”

He gives a bashful shrug. “I had a lot of time to myself when I moved back last year. Thea was in rehab -- the first time -- and I’d fired my old agent. I really didn’t want any more of my personal life being leaked to the press, so I decided to become a little more self-sufficient.” There’s a hint of color across his cheeks. “I decided to grow up, I guess.”

Something about his explanation and his mild discomfort sharing it touches her. “I can _ not _ cook,” she confesses, “so I’m extra impressed that you can.”

“French toast is pretty simple, Felicity,” he points out, tilting the pan up so she can see the bread browning. 

She scrunches up her nose. “My problem is more about patience. Like, if the recipe says 20 minutes on low heat, why can’t we speed everything up and just turn it high for, like, five minutes?”

The horrified look Oliver gives her makes her drop her face into her hands and laugh. “Felicity,” he manages, sounding scandalized, “how have you not burned your house down?”

“I’ve never set anything  _ on fire _ .” She straightens. Off of his disbelieving eyebrow of judgement, she adds, somewhat defensively, “I mostly just turn food ingredients into... a charred mess that is basically inedible.”

With an obnoxious little flourish, Oliver plates two slices of french toast and slides her plate across the slick marble. It slows to a perfect stop right in front of her, and she moans a little at the wafting scent of deliciousness. 

Oliver chuckles, offering up a bottle of fancy maple syrup. “Bon appetit.” 

“Ugh,” she says, snatching the syrup eagerly, “you speak  _ French _ ?”

“No, just a little Spanish and Russian.” 

That catches her attention, and she pauses in the middle of drowning her french toast in maple syrup. “Russian?”

Oliver nods, walking around the island and sliding into the seat beside her, settling his plate and reaching for a napkin. “Yeah, I knew a bit because our housekeeper, Raisa, is Russian and taught me some when I was growing up. Then I worked with Anatoly Knyazev on  _ Sworn Assassins _ , and we became friends. He’s much easier on his actors when he can swear at them in Russian.”

“Mmmmm,” Felicity says, both in response to his explanation and in reaction to the french toast, which, for a fairly simple food, tastes  _ amazing _ . 

They spend the rest of their meal chatting amiably, and it’s not until Oliver stands to clear their empty plates that she realizes how easy things are between them sometimes. This friendship they’re building -- she never would’ve expected it when John first suggested this insane idea, but she really likes this. And she doesn’t want to leave just yet.

“So,” she says brightly, “do you need another social media tutorial?” She’s teasing him, but he  _ does _ still struggle with everything other than twitter -- and he’s only adept with that because he primarily uses it to talk to her and Thea. Which, admittedly, delights their fans, except for a small but  _ very _ vocal segment of people who are vehemently opposed to his relationship with Felicity because they think he should be with McKenna Hall, who starred opposite him in several of the unapologetically dumb  _ Klutch _ films. Felicity can hardly get too bent out of shape over that since McKenna is, in fact, gorgeous, and, more to the point: Felicity is not actually Oliver’s girlfriend in the first place. So.

He glances over his shoulder at her. “Nah. I’m good,” he says over the sound of the running water and the occasional clank of plates against the stainless steel sink. “How about we start that show you wanted to watch?”

“ _ 17 Unread Messages _ ?” she asks, brightening. It’s a Netflix series she’s been meaning to marathon. “I’ve gotta warn you, Oliver, if I like it, we’re watching the whole thing.”

Oliver places their plates and utensils in the dishwasher, then wipes his hands on the cobalt blue dish towel before he answers. “That’s not a problem,” he tells her, and if she’s not mistaken, it kind of seems like he’s looking forward to that possibility.

“No, I mean, we’re watching it all  _ today _ ,” she explains with an eager little nod.

“Today?” Oliver blinks. “The whole series?”

Felicity rolls her eyes at him. “It’s only ten episodes, Oliver, that’s like seven-and-a-half hours.” She flips her phone up and waggles it in his direction. “It’s barely 11 a.m.!”

He still looks a little skeptical, but nods his agreement. “Okay. All I had on the agenda today was reading some scripts, but there’s no real rush.”

Felicity narrows her eyes. “Is that what Lyla  _ said _ or is that your  _ interpretation _ of the turnaround time?” Because Lyla is not one for missed deadlines, and she’s pretty sure Lyla would kill  _ her _ , too, if she caused Oliver to miss a deadline. Even if Lyla and John are both in on the PR strategy that necessitated Felicity spending the day at Oliver’s.

Oliver wipes his hands dry, then circles the island to her side, ushering her towards the living room. “I’ll go through them tonight, I promise. Now,” he continues as he leads her down the hallway and into the media room, “I’ve been having a little trouble with the sound system, but--”

“Oooooh!” Felicity brightens, rubbing her palms together. “Let’s troubleshoot!” Off of Oliver’s bemused look, she shrugs. “What? I’m good with electronics. Let’s do this!”

 

& & &

 

Twenty minutes of Felicity crawling around to rewire the sound system (which Oliver tolerated with the occasional vaguely disgruntled noise and a couple of overly dramatic sighs) and she’s corrected the problem he knows about, plus two more. When she emerges from behind the console victorious, Oliver says thanks, tugs her down onto the super squooshy leather couch beside him and hands her the remote and a lightweight fleece blanket.

“Aww, you  _ do _ listen when I talk about the best way to watch TV!” She nudges him with her elbow and he rolls his eyes. 

“We can marathon this, but no junk food,” he decides. 

Felicity blinks innocently and presses the power button.

Five episodes later, Oliver capitulates and orders a pizza.

An extra cheese, meat-lover’s pizza, with a side order of cheesy breadsticks, actually, and Felicity beams proudly at him when he accepts the delivery from Dennis, the building’s doorman. Oliver had made a series of valiant arguments in favor of “healthier options” -- seriously, who eats  _ broccoli _ as a mid-marathon snack? -- but Felicity wore him down with sheer determination and her undying love for cheese. 

“Yay!” she cheers, following him back into the kitchen. She’s already munching on a deliciously cheesy breadstick when Oliver offers her a plate. “Mmm, thanks,” she mumbles, then piles two pieces of pizza and another breadstick onto her plate. “No comments from the  _ healthier options _ crowd,” she warns, slipping back into the same stool she’d eaten french toast in earlier. 

“I’ll just do a double at the gym tomorrow,” Oliver decides with a grimace. Then he groans in a  _ really _ suggestive kind of way when he takes his first bite. Felicity watches him in a wide-eyed, lusty trance as he savors the pizza. “Yeah,” he admits once he swallows, “probably worth it.”

Felicity can feel the heat in her cheeks, and busies herself with her food. “So,” she says, floundering for a new topic, “how many scripts are you supposed to read today?”

Oliver looks momentarily panicked, his gaze shifting to the haphazard stack of manila envelopes. “Uh. Seven or eight,” he admits with a wince.

“You’re right to be scared of her, you know,” Felicity tells him.

“She’s my agent, why would I be--? I’m not  _ scared _ of her, I just don’t like to disappoint her since she took a chance on me,” Oliver protests, like,  _ way _ too much. Especially considering the clear signs of anxiety on his face every time he glances at those scripts.

Felicity just grins at him. “Okay, sure.” She grabs her second breadstick and slides off her stool, rounding the island and taking a closer look at what are clearly the scripts he’s supposed to review, sitting in a sad pile on the countertop. “So how long does it take you to read a script?”

Oliver shrugs while he finishes chewing. “About an hour if they hold my attention.”

Felicity whirls back around. “You have  _ eight hours _ of work to do and you let me start a  _ 17 Unread Messages _ marathon?”

There’s an expression she can’t read on Oliver’s face as he answers, “Yeah.” 

She stares at him, but instead of elaborating, Oliver takes another big bite of his slice of pizza. Felicity considers their options and decides that, as much as she’s enjoying  _ 17 Unread Messages _ , she can’t in good conscience let her preferred media viewing habits -- i.e., marathons unbroken by anything other than food/liquor breaks -- derail Oliver’s actual career responsibilities.

“Okay,” she announces, popping the rest of her breadstick in her mouth and mumbling around it as she gathers the scripts into a pile and lifts them into her arms, “divide and conquer.”

Brow furrowed, Oliver watches her dump the pile of scripts on the island next to the pizza. “Huh?”

She holds up a hand while she swallows. “Divide and conquer,” she repeats much more clearly without a large -- seriously,  _ so delicious _ \-- chunk of cheesy breadstick in her mouth. “You tell me what you’re looking for in a part, and we can go through these in half the time.”

Oliver just stares at her, unmoving, and Felicity gets the uncomfortable feeling she’s crossed a line.  _ Another _ line, after taking over his entire day. She winces, mind racing for a way to fix this. “Unless, I mean, we don’t have to do that. Picking a project is something really personal, and it’s totally fine if you prefer to--”

“You want to read scripts with me?” Oliver interjects, sounding strangely vulnerable. 

It hits Felicity hard, because she gets the sense that Oliver is lonely here in Starling, and she has the strongest urge to make him feel better. “If that would be helpful, sure,” she answers quietly. “I mean, I kind of blew up your plans for the day, and I’d like to make it up to you.”

Oliver’s palm lands on her shoulder, and her gaze snaps to his. “There’s nothing to make up for,” he tells her in that soft, serious voice that leaves her feeling oddly disarmed. “Today has been great, and I’d--” He stops, blows out a nervous little breath. “I’d love the help, if you really don’t mind.”

There’s a strange, fluttery feeling in her chest, and she can’t seem to look away from him. “I definitely don’t mind,” she tells him.

“Yeah?” he asks, a small, hopeful smile blooming on his face.

She glances away, because his vulnerability is too much for her to bear. “Where do you wanna do it?” she blurts. Her cheeks burn bright, and she shakes her head. “ _ Read _ ,” she clarifies, words tumbling out quickly. “Where do you want to  _ read _ , because I love your kitchen but these stools are really  _ not _ super comfortable for a couple hours’ worth of work, so maybe we can--”

“The dining room,” he explains, mercifully interrupting her embarrassing tirade. “I usually work in there.”

“Dining room,” Felicity repeats, reaching for the pile of scripts, because organization is calming when she’s spun up. Like she  _ definitely _ is right now, what with all of his...  _ you know _ , and her stupid mouth running away with her. “Right. Okay.” She can still feel the heat of a blush across her cheeks as she primly straightens the scripts, making sure they are stacked perfectly.

“Hey,” Oliver says in his soft voice, his fingers landing on her forearm. “We can finish eating first.”

“Pizza first!” Felicity agrees, still flustered as she settles back onto her stool. “So how do you usually do this? What are your criteria?” she asks, reaching for another piece and taking a large bite, because she can’t blurt out embarrassing things with her mouth full. You know, probably.

Oliver takes a swig of water, considering her question. “I want to do more interesting work,” he says slowly. “That’s the basic thing. But I’m also looking for something with less fight choreography and more...” he trails off, looking uncertain.

“Depth?” Felicity offers. “More of a range for you to explore?”

He definitely looks nervous when he nods in agreement. “Yeah, yes, I’d-- I’d really like to play a role that challenges me.”

“And the kind of story?” Felicity prompts. “Indie thinkpiece? Scifi? Mystery/thriller?” She tips her head, studying him playfully. “You’re a bit too old for a coming of age piece.”

Oliver cuts her a sarcastic glare. “Thanks.”

"No, I just mean you're very _manly_." Why?  _Why_ is her brain like this? "I just mean you couldn't believably play a teenager. With the scruff and the--" she gestures vaguely at his broad chest-- "With all of that." She sucks in a breath. “So other than  _ no more action movies _ , you’re open to anything?” she asks, desperate to talk about basically anything other than Oliver's manly chest.

“Right," he answers slowly, eyes sparkling with amusement, but thankfully, he lets her embarrassing little diversion into his  _manly characteristics_ be. "I’m not worried about genre, but I’d like something character driven. Something that lets the characters breathe and interact and just be  _ human _ , instead of...” he trails off with a shrug.

Felicity tilts her head. “Instead of playing yet another preternaturally calm and wisecracking secret ninja?” she teases.

To her relief, he rolls his eyes and can’t quite fight back a smile. “I’ve never played a  _ ninja _ .”

“True,” Felicity concedes. “Which is good, because that would be gross and whitewash-y,” she adds absently. “But you know what I mean.”

“You mean another Blade Stanton, Army vet, single dad, and cynical cop,” Oliver offers, eyes twinkling with amusement.

“No,” Felicity says. “Blade? You played a guy named  _ Blade _ ?”

Oliver is clearly enjoying her reaction. “That was  _ The Longest War, the Shortest Peace _ , which was... not great.” Felicity presses her lips together to hold in her laugher, and he quirks an eyebrow. “What?”

“Well, I mean, the monster trucks--”

“Oh, God,” Oliver mutters, dropping his face into his hands for a moment. “You would bring up  _ Klutch _ .”

Felicity couldn’t wipe the smirk off of her face if she tried. “Oliver, you played a disillusioned long-haul trucker who is blackmailed into  _ underground monster truck racing _ .” For reasons passing understanding, the first movie grossed a ton of money internationally, and Oliver ended up starring in four.  _ Four underground monster truck racing _ movies. The mind boggles.

“Did you see any of them?” he challenges, despite the slight flush of embarrassment on his cheeks.

She can’t quite meet his gaze when she remembers the particular scene she  _ has _ seen. A couple times, but only because it’s all over YouTube. “I saw part of the second one.”

“Ah,” Oliver says, sounding impossibly smug, “You saw the sex scene.”

Her cheeks are burning again, and she can only hold his gaze in short bursts. The way his hands had moved so confidently along McKenna Hall’s skin? The way he’d crawled up her body like a panther, his incredible body on (almost) full display? Yeah, she definitely saw that. “I guess,” she manages, her voice all strange and twitchy. “What was your character’s name?”

It takes a moment, and Felicity knows Oliver is weighing whether to keep teasing her about watching his bare-assed sex scene, but eventually he sighs. “Rod.”

Her gaze snaps to his in astonishment, because no. No way. “ _ Rod _ ?”

“The writers of the underground monster truck franchise were not subtle,” he points out.

“I’ll say.” Rod. Wow. She presses her lips together to keep from smirking.

“In  _ Hard Justice _ , I was Rick Steele--”

“Rick Steele?” she interrupts, snickering. “ _ Hard Justice _ ?”

“--a CIA agent with a chip on his shoulder who goes undercover as a boxer to infiltrate an international human trafficking ring.”

“Oh, my God.” Felicity leans her head on her hand, laughing too hard to remain upright. “Can we please go through your IMDB later? I really think we could sell a movie treatment that’s just an amalgam of all your prior roles.” She adopts a bad movie trailer announcer voice and says, “He’s a talented football player from smalltown USA whose college injury prevents an NFL career, and sends him on a different path -- Dick Strongman is:  _ CIA Supersoldier Who Saves the World _ .” 

“Dick Strongman,” Oliver repeats with a grin. “I never played a Dick--”

“Oh, my God.” She can’t remember the last time she laughed this hard.

“--but I did play Hugh Johnson.”

Felicity watches him warily. “You didn’t. That’s not real.”

“Oh, but it is,” he retorts. Then he drops his voice into  _ Dramatic Movie Announcer _ register. “Hugh Johnson never meant to become a vigilante in search of justice, but after five years fighting for survival on remote pacific island, he’s the only one who can right his father’s wrongs and  _ Save. His. City _ .” Oliver’s desperately fighting a grin, but makes it to the tagline, “He is…  _ The Nock _ ."

She tries to stop the snort that arises at that but can’t. “Oh,  _ The Nock.  _ I forgot about that one. What was up with that?”   
  
“I don’t know,” Oliver says, shaking his head with a rueful smile. “I might as well have been  _ The Jockstrap _ .”

“And  _ Hugh Johnson.”  _ She wipes tears of laughter from her face, cheeks aching _.  _ “What amazing compensation therapy that must have been for those writers.”

He makes a pained, mirthful sound. “Same screenwriters as the original  _ Klutch  _ movie, actually.”

“Oh,  _ no _ ,” Felicity wails, grabbing onto the bar before she slides off her stool with her cackling. “You didn’t learn your lesson the first four times?”

“Apparently not,” Oliver says, laughing; guffawing, really, and it is a sight to behold. He’s leaning forward a bit, one hand pressed to his chest, and he looks utterly transformed from the smug, arrogant jackass Felicity met all those years ago. That man wouldn’t have been able to laugh at himself or his career the way Oliver is now, let alone acknowledge that he’s capable of wanting -- of  _ being _ \-- more.

This man, though? He’s kind. He’s self-aware and mature enough to regret his past indiscretions. Most of all, he’s someone she likes, someone she has  _ fun _ with, and the realization stuns her a bit. They’ve had a day full of comfortable companionship and unpredictable moments of chemistry, and now this wonderful, gleeful silliness. It feels like something she never expected, something like  _ potential. _

There’s potential here, both in Oliver and in them, and she doesn’t know what to do with that.

While she’s trying to piece it all out, Oliver is calming down, his laughter trailing off into irregular chuckles until he’s left just grinning at her. “So you understand why I fired my old agent,” he observes.

“Definitely,” she says, turning her attention back to the conversation and putting that confusing swirl of...  _ whatever _ aside until later. 

He nods a bit. “Not that I can blame things entirely on Isabel,” he admits. “I let myself get distracted by the paychecks and the associated perks.”

Felicity can’t help but think the Ollie Queen of several years ago wasn’t  _ distracted _ by those things so much as  _ motivated _ by them, but the distinction isn’t enough to argue about. Especially not now, when his guard is down and he’s being so open with her. So she aims to keep the mood light. “If these are the types of movies you kept choosing,” she says wryly, “you definitely need me.”

Oliver’s smile softens, somehow, and the way he’s watching her makes her breath stutter a bit. “You’re right about that,” he answers.

That strange, warm tension between them reappears, suddenly, and it’s less intense than before but no less confusing. Felicity has no idea how to stop the buzz of awareness she feels as they hold eye contact. “Yeah?” she asks softly.

Oliver looks down, and if Felicity didn’t know better, she’d think he seemed almost bashful. “Yeah,” he answers.

Her entire chest is filled with warmth, and she reaches for his hand, squeezing his fingers lightly. “Good thing I came over today, huh?”

Oliver’s thumb rubs lightly against the back of her hand. “Good thing.”

 

END CHAPTER ELEVEN


	12. Chapter 12

 

 

_So. This is happening._

The voice in Oliver’s head sounds suspiciously like Felicity, and it sort of helps to think that Felicity could be as weirdly nervous as he is about this. About Thea and Felicity, meeting. Soon, in Oliver’s apartment.

Oliver can’t make himself stop walking in strange, uneven loops around his home as he waits for Felicity to arrive, an ineffective effort to siphon off some energy. He _was_ focused on food prep, but now the chicken’s baking, the sides are prepped, and all he has left to do is make the wine sauce, which he won’t start until they’re about to sit down for dinner. Without constructive tasks to focus on, he is just... wandering his home.

“Would you sit down,” Thea grouses from her spot sprawled over a surprisingly large section of the couch, considering her small stature. “You’re making me dizzy.”

He shoots her an unimpressed look and changes course, heading toward the window to stare out at the Bay. After a moment of the view not really registering, he’s off again, angling back toward the kitchen counter.

He’s not moving with any purpose, simply pausing here and there to straighten things up, or to reposition the bland, expensive objets d’art chosen and placed by his interior designer. On a normal day, he doesn’t even notice these things -- he usually doesn’t care whether the ocean blue blown glass vase is artfully off-center on the console table. Today, however, he frowns at it, wondering whether he wants it in his house at all.

Oliver knows there’s no real reason to be so nervous today -- he and Felicity have spent quite a bit of time together the past couple weeks. Mostly to _be seen_ spending time together, but he doesn’t often think about the PR aspect of their relationship -- _friendship_.

No, Oliver calls Felicity when he wants to talk to her, he invites her to dinner because he wants to see her, and he spends an embarrassing amount of time wondering whether the texts he’s composing are interesting or witty enough to send to her, and then sending almost all of them anyway. She’s present in his thoughts, and he’s not usually so anxious about it.

Then again, she’s not usually coming to dinner _to meet his sister_.

His sister who spent her middle teens obsessively listening to “ _Felicity Smoak, Ollie -- she’s so cool!_ ” and pestering their mother to let her and her friends go to Felicity’s concerts. Oliver had already been living in LA at the time so he’s not sure, but he _thinks_ there were Felicity Smoak posters in Thea’s room for a couple of years. Honestly, of the two Queens, Thea is really the one who should be nervously pacing in anticipation of Felicity’s arrival, not him.

But, really, he shouldn’t be nervous, either -- not really. Hell, it’s only his deeply-loved but incredibly nosy little sister meeting the brilliant and unexpected woman Oliver’s not-dating as often as he can. Who cares if they get along?

Except he does. He cares a lot.

Oliver stops, forcing himself to take a deep, calming breath. Then he turns to his sister, who’s watching him with a bemused expression on her face.

“I’m fine,” he lies. Badly. He really needs Thea to like Felicity, and Felicity to like Thea.

“Really,” he adds. He’s self-aware enough to realize he’s developed feelings — _real_ feelings — for Felicity, and no matter how unlikely a real relationship between them is, he wants her in his life. And maybe, if she and Thea become friends, he’ll still get to spend time with her, even after their fake relationship ends in a fake breakup.

God, he hates thinking about their fake breakup.

Still, he forces a smile meant to convey to his sister just how totally fine and not unreasonably nervous he is.

Which does not seem to convince Thea, if the way she wrinkles her nose at him is any indication. “Yeah,” she answers, “I can tell how fine you are by the way you fussed over the plate settings.”

His baby sister has grown and changed a lot this past year; she’s not the brittle, angry, occasionally vicious girl she used to be. But her wicked sarcasm -- albeit softened and affectionate as opposed to razor sharp -- has not waned a bit.

“All I did was set the table,” he answers.

“You bought _chargers_ , Ollie. I didn’t think you knew what chargers even are!”

He opens his mouth to argue, but he’d stupidly texted his sister pictures from the department store earlier in the day to get her opinion, which he’s quite sure she’ll remind him off if he tries to defend himself. “I just want this to go well,” he admits, going for honesty over bravado.

“Do you have reason to think it won’t?” Thea asks. Then her face goes suspiciously blank. “Is it because I just got out of rehab? Are you worried I’ll embarrass you in front of Felicity?”

Oh shit. “Thea, _no._ Absolutely not, I just--” Oliver’s already halfway through a horrified and impassioned denial when he sees the corner of Thea’s mouth twitch. “You’re such a brat.”

“Too soon?” Thea asks, voice full of warm amusement.

He’s not sure he’ll survive tonight if Thea insists on demonstrating her love of breaking awkward moments of tension with inappropriate humor. “Definitely.”

She tips her head at him in concession, although it’s clear she’s still laughing at him. “I think you’re putting too much pressure on yourself and this dinner. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?”

His brain has no trouble providing an immediate worst case scenario. “The whole night is awkward and she hates my cooking and I scare her off completely.”

Thea lifts her eyes to the ceiling. “Yes, based on everything you’ve told me about her, that absolutely sounds like a plausible reaction.”

Having no answer for her, he retreats. “I’m going to check dinner,” he says, and heads back to the kitchen to double-check the meal preparation.

Oliver’s out of his element. He’s never really hosted anything like this before -- before he moved back to Starling, he’d had a few parties at his mansion, but hosting _those_ kinds of bashes basically meant that his manager would hire caterers and staff to handle whatever preparation/clean up was necessary while Oliver himself remained blissfully drunk and insulated from real life responsibilities.

 _Blissfully drunk and insulated from real life responsibilities_ was kind of the theme of Oliver’s life in Hollywood, but he’s trying hard to do better. To _be_ better.

Speaking of being better, maybe he should wear a different shirt?

“Thea,” he calls to the other room, “do you think my shirt is too casual?”

“What?” she replies.

Moving quickly towards his sister, he points at his maroon henley and frowns. “Too casual?” It’s hard to gauge based on Thea’s outfit, since she has that breezily stylish thing _down_. Even in a midriff-baring white top, dark jeans, and shoes that look like some kind of cross between sneakers and oxfords, she somehow still looks like she’d fit effortlessly in at Table Salt.

And... Oliver feels woefully underdressed all of a sudden.

Thea rolls her eyes at him. “You look fine, you dolt. Calm down.”

But Oliver is in his head, now. “Maybe I should wear a button-down,” he muses, mostly to himself, tugging the soft material out a bit to frown down at it. And is that flour on his shirt? “I’m gonna go change,” he decides, ignoring his sister’s laughter as he heads for his bedroom.

“Ollie,” Thea calls after him.

He pauses, one hand on the doorframe of his bedroom, and turns back to her. “Yeah?”

Her smile is positively impish when she says, “You realize you’re _actually_ dating your fake girlfriend, right?”

“What? No,” he answers quickly, shaking his head. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Cooking her dinner,” Thea retorts, ticking points off on her fingers, “dressing up for her, asking her to meet your family? _And getting all nervous about all of it_?”

Her words hang there in the air, an uncomfortable truth that Oliver is not interested in acknowledging.

“Shut up,” he answers belatedly, and escapes to his bedroom.

Oliver tries valiantly to ignore Thea’s argument, but she’s not _entirely_ wrong. He genuinely likes Felicity, and has fun with her, and remains in awe of her talent and her incredible brain. Of course, she’s also beautiful, and he’s attracted to her in a way he’s never really felt before. He _wants_ this to be real, but it’s not, and he needs to keep his head on straight.

Tugging his shirt off, Oliver stands in his closet and glares at his selection of crisp button-downs, undecided. Because now he’s focusing his nervous energy on his wardrobe, and without a stylist around to tell him what to wear, his default is t-shirts, henleys, and jeans. “Shit,” he mutters, eyeing the stylist-supplied fancier shirts, wishing he could remember anything Nia’s ever told him about fashion.

Of _course_ that’s when the doorbell sounds, announcing Felicity’s arrival.

“Fuck!” Oliver grabs a navy blue shirt from the hanger, nearly tearing it in the process, and throws it on. He’s pretty sure Nia told him to wear untucked -- something about the length and the way the tails are cut, maybe? -- so he only has to struggle with the buttons as he runs to the hallway. He stops just out of view of the living room to fasten the last button, then runs a nervous hand down the placket before rushing towards the door.

Where Thea and Felicity stand, chatting amiably.

Oliver stops short, the sight nearly overwhelming in its _rightness_.

Felicity’s lavender hair is loose and brushing her bare shoulders. She’s wearing a simple, gunmetal grey dress that falls easily to mid-thigh, and strange, white, seemingly metal-toed platform shoes that almost bring her to Thea’s height. Felicity is gorgeous, as ever, grinning at his sister as they talk to and over each other.

Before he’s prepared, they turn towards him excitedly. Thea’s smile is slightly smug as waggles her eyebrows at him, while Felicity’s expression is typically bright and unrestrained. She is so beautiful that Oliver has to glance down for a moment to catch his breath.

And then Felicity is in his personal space, her hand landing on his chest. “Hey,” she says, soft and affectionate. Then she leans up to press a kiss to his cheek.

“Hey,” he answers in a low, matching tone, catching her gaze as she takes a half step back. He lifts a hand towards her, then stops, shoving both hands in his pockets. “Thanks for coming,” he says, for lack of anything less stiffly formal, and ignores the amused huff from Thea.

Felicity tips her head slightly, amusement and confusion on her face at his sudden awkwardness. “Like I would turn down your cooking.”

“Yeah,” he answers dumbly. “I mean-- We should--” He shoots Thea a slightly panicky look.

“We should have a drink,” Thea suggests, moving smoothly past Oliver and touching Felicity’s elbow to get her moving.

“Right,” Oliver answers, telling himself to get it together. Thea’s addiction issues were limited to drugs -- Vertigo, mainly -- but she’s very selective about alcohol, now, too.

He’d made sure she was comfortable with him serving wine with dinner, and she’d rolled her eyes and pointed out she’s not going to fall off the wagon just because she’s sharing a meal with people having a glass or two of wine. “Wine is good. Dinner is almost ready, I just need to make the sauce, but until then--”

“Wine!” Felicity sends him a bright smile over her shoulder as she loops her arm with Thea’s. “Excellent plan.”

Oliver nods and follows Thea and Felicity to the kitchen.

 

& & &

 

It takes almost an hour of normal conversation over dinner, but eventually Thea breaks.

Oliver _knew_ she would. Hell, he’d tried for a solid hour this afternoon to bet Thea on the topic, but she’d refused, insisting that she’s a grown adult who does not _fangirl_ about anyone.

She does admirably well through the initial, getting-to-know-you-type conversations with Felicity, and through the discussion of the city council’s bizarre proposal to rename the city “Star City.” She’d even sent Oliver a smug look when Felicity’s reference to a concert in Starling years ago -- a concert Oliver _knows_ Thea gleefully attended with five of her friends -- garnered only a simple “Interesting,” from Thea.

It’s not until Felicity, in the midst of an explanation of a new app she’s tinkering around with that would allow her to record music anywhere, mentions her YouTube channel that Thea noticeably breaks.

All of a sudden, Thea’s playing with her newly short hair, pushing it impatiently behind her ear, then tugging on the ends. Oliver smirks at her and she glares. Still, she manages to stay quiet until Felicity mentions an early collaboration with Cisco Ramon.

“Have you ever met Roy Harper?” Thea blurts out, then claps a hand over her mouth.

Oliver bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. God, he’d forgotten about the boy band Arsenal, and Thea’s undying crush on “the quiet one with the ridiculous jawline.” Oliver had spent many, many hours teasing her about her weird fixation on the man’s _jaw_. Also the band’s over-reliance on soccer metaphors.

For her part, Felicity seems delighted by Thea’s question. “Oh, you like Roy?”

“Roy?” Thea repeats, her voice pitched a little higher, which does not at all mask the awe in her tone at the implication that Felicity might _know_ Roy Harper. “I mean, he’s _very_ attractive.” She tries to affect an unconcerned shrug, but it is not at all convincing.

Oliver grins broadly, relieved that finally someone _else_ is the nervous one. Felicity notices and gives him a warning look, reaching under the table to poke his thigh with one bright purple fingernail.

“He’s actually very nice,” Felicity tells Thea, withdrawing her hand. “I met him a few times, before Arsenal broke up. Great voice, and surprisingly good with his hands,” she adds, her attention on cutting up the last few bites of her lemon chicken scaloppini.

The Queen siblings stare at Felicity in confused silence. “Good with his hands?” Oliver echoes gruffly. He’s not proud of the stab of jealousy he feels.

“Hmm?” Felicity glances up, blinking at him once before her cheeks turn pink. “Oh, no,” Felicity says with an embarrassed little laugh, “not like that. I mean he works on cars. And, actually, that’s just something we talked about once, it’s not like I _watched_ him work on cars, so I suppose he might totally suck at it? But... yeah. Definitely I didn’t have sex with him, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Oliver lets out a relieved sigh that, given Thea’s tiny snort of amusement, does not go unnoticed. The siblings glare at each other for a moment, then Thea turns back to Felicity.

“So,” Thea says, looking again like the uncertain teenager Oliver vividly remembers, “I should also tell you I was a huge fan of yours.”

Felicity gives Thea one of those irresistibly bright smiles. “ _Was_ , huh?” she observes with a little laugh. It shouldn’t surprise Oliver that she seems not the least bit offended by the implication of Thea’s words. That unshakable self-confidence in her talent is something Oliver hopes might rub off on him.

“Oh!” Thea straightens in her seat. “Not like-- I didn’t mean that I’m not _now_ , just that--”

“Thea means,” Oliver interjects with a smirk at his sister, “that she no longer begs our mother to let her bleach her hair ‘ _Felicity Smoak_ ’ blonde.”

“Ollie,” Thea grumbles, a flush on her cheeks, “you suck.”

Felicity just seems charmed by the whole thing. “That’s very sweet, thank you! I don’t know if Oliver mentioned it, but I’m kind of overhauling my sound a little bit. John -- that’s my manager, who’s married to Oliver’s manager, Lyla, which,” she continues with a little laugh, “is kind of why we’re all here in the first place.”

She pauses, and Oliver guesses she’s mentally rewinding her train of thought. “Anyway, John’s working on a ‘surprise’--” Felicity drops her fork with a clatter so she can make air quotes around the word-- “appearance at Poison next weekend. I’m supposed to test the waters and get some good buzz for some of my new material. Oliver’s basically _required_ to come pretend to be interested in my music--”

“Hey,” Oliver protests, “I _am_ interested in your music.”

Felicity shoot him a grateful smile, then turns her attention back to Thea. “I can’t guarantee _Roy Harper_ or any other hot, strong-jawed singers will be there, but you’re welcome to come.”

“I don’t think I’m quite ready for a club yet, but I’d love to hear you sing again sometime.” Thea’s embarrassment seems forgotten as she brightens, leaning forward a little and leaning her forearms on the edge of the table. “Especially if you have new material. How is it different?” she asks, genuinely curious.

Oliver winces, turning his gaze to Felicity, whose enthusiasm dims as she considers how to respond. He recognizes her reaction -- it’s the same quiet, paralyzing sadness that came over her that day they’d “practiced” kissing, like she’s faded a bit right in front of his eyes. “Felicity,” he says, and she looks over at him. “You don’t--”

“It’s okay,” she interrupts, reaching over to touch his arm. “I don’t mind.”

“Oh, hey,” Thea says, a furrow between her brows as she looks back and forth between them, “I didn’t mean to be nosey.”

“Nosey is your default,” Oliver points out, trying to lighten the mood a bit.

Beside him, Felicity takes a breath. “It’s really okay. Besides, I need to get better about talking about this.”

It’s clear from the way Thea’s expression changes that she understands the topic she’s inadvertently stumbled upon. Of course she does -- she may not be a _fangirl_ of Felicity’s in the way she was as a teenager, but Cooper Seldon’s death and his family’s veiled accusations about Felicity’s role in it had been front page news for weeks. And while Oliver’s not sure whether Thea’s comfortable wading into these waters, considering Cooper’s apparent drug problems, he recognizes the calm determination on her face.

“I understand,” Thea tells Felicity, giving her an encouraging nod.

The two women exchange a long look before Felicity speaks. “My boyfriend, Cooper, died maybe an hour after we had a terrible fight. One in a succession of terrible fights, actually,” she explains, her voice strong but soft. “So not only did I have all this grief and guilt, there is all this...” she waves a hand in the air, “ _unresolved stuff_ in my brain, and I can’t seem to write songs about sunshine and parties and dancing anymore.”

Thea nods slowly. “That makes sense.”

“ _Not_ ,” Felicity continues, eyes wide and words coming faster and faster now, “that there’s anything wrong with sunshine and dancing! I mean, who doesn’t love dancing?” She hooks at thumb at Oliver. “Aside from _this guy_ , obviously. But I don’t mean to diminish that kind of music, or my _own_ music, obviously.”

“I know,” Thea tries, but Felicity is still going.

“I just can’t connect with it the say way I used to,” she admits with a little frown. “And maybe that’s only temporary -- I _hope_ it’s only temporary, because I used to have so much fun at concerts? But my headspace is just--” She breaks off, hands thrown up in uncertainty. Then she brings her hands together, clasping them, and pulls her arms to her chest. “Like there’s this wall between the person I used to be, and all this,” she shrugs, “ _stuff_ in my brain now.”

This time, Thea stays quiet for a long moment, clearly waiting to make sure she doesn’t interrupt Felicity. “That wall?” she ventures. “I know exactly what you mean. Although the _stuff_ for me is all self-inflicted.”

“Thea,” Oliver protests. Because her addiction is not her fault, and she _knows_ that, and she’s only been out of rehab for nine days and he really needs her to be okay. “We lost dad. Under... bad circumstances.” Robert Queen and his mistress died along with two pilots when the Queen Consolidated jet crashed just after takeoff -- the Queen siblings lost their father _and_ their mistaken belief that he was a man capable of fidelity. They’d eventually learned their mother had been aware of several of her husband’s affairs over the years, and Moira Queen had, in a misguided attempt to temper their anger at their dead father, admitted that she’d strayed, too. Oliver and Thea had said some things in the aftermath, in the depths of their grief and anger, that they’ve come to regret, and he knows his sister’s drug use worsened after that.

Thea makes a face at him. “You know what I mean. My unresolved guilt isn’t about dad -- his lies and his cheating aren’t my fault. But he and mom didn’t make me take drugs to numb the pain. So my _stuff_ is self-directed.”

Oliver’s heart aches for his sister, and he doesn’t know how to respond. They had conversations like these while she was in rehab, but he’s hyper-conscious of Felicity being here, and being mostly a stranger to his sister. He doesn’t want to reveal anything that Thea wouldn’t want revealed.

“You know,” Felicity says slowly, “my stuff and your stuff is different, for sure, but I think it almost always ends up feeling self-directed.” Thea frowns in confusion, but doesn’t respond. Felicity holds her gaze. “I know, logically, that Cooper’s death isn’t my fault. But all the _stuff_ in here tells me he wouldn’t have been driving angry, he wouldn’t have been doing almost 100 on Bayside, if I hadn’t started that fight.”

She pauses, head tilting as she considers something. “Honestly, I can’t even remember if I _did_ start that fight, or if he did. I guess what I’m saying is the objective truth has almost nothing to do with the guilt and pain and self-blame that curdles into this heavy _stuff_ that we carry around like stone. Or push around, maybe, like Sisyphus. We’re Sisyphuses.”

Thea’s expression is hard for Oliver to interpret, until she exhales and manages a small smile. “That’s a very accurate description,” she tells Felicity. “I--”

Oliver’s phone chirps, interrupting the conversation. Surprised because, honestly, the only two people who regularly call him are sitting at this table, Oliver shifts and tugs his phone out of his pocket. Then he frowns down at it.

“What’s wrong?” Thea asks.

“Nothing,” Oliver answers. “But I guess I should take this.” He turns the phone so that Felicity can see Barry Allen’s name on the screen.

“Oh!” She brightens. “Tell Barry I said hi!”

Nodding, Oliver pushes his chair back and accepts the call. “Barry, hi,” he answers, moving towards the living room.

“Oliver!” Barry greets with his trademark enthusiasm. “Is this a good time?”

Oliver frowns at the wall -- a good time for what? “Sure,” he answers, a bit hesitant.

“Sorry if I’m butting in where I don’t belong, but I just had dinner with the Yamashiros -- do you know Tatsu and Maseo?”

Oliver blinks. Tatsu and Maseo Yamashiro are a formidable duo in more independent circles. The husband-and-wife pair write and direct, respectively, the kinds of movies that feel grounded and real and small in that important-truths kind of way. They create movies that go to Sundance and Cannes. Oliver has been in the industry a long time, but he’s never been in a film festival type of movie, so while it’s possible he’d met them at an event at some point, he probably hasn’t. “I... don’t think so, no.”

“Oh, well, they’re great,” Barry continues. “I worked with them last year, and I had a lunch meeting with them today about something they’re producing in eighteen months or so, and, well, their next movie is slated to start production in three weeks on Kyushu in Japan, but they just fired Billy Wintergreen.”

Oliver still can’t quite make sense of where this conversation is going, but he’s definitely curious. “Fired? Why?”

“Turns out Wintergreen harassed the stunt coordinator and the script supervisor on his last movie,” Barry explains, and Oliver remembers seeing the _Variety_ headline a couple days ago. “The Yamashiros are not the type to look the other way on that kind of appalling behavior.”

“Oh,” Oliver says, for lack of anything better. In his time in Hollywood, he’s definitely seen the selfish, sexist entitlement of powerful men manifesting in predatory actions. He’s seen women in the crew, and in the cast, disappear from sets before, amidst vague, vicious rumors that shifted blame onto them -- snide references to casting couches, or moving on to better opportunities and richer men. A couple times, he’s appointed himself the on-set escort for actresses who were clearly uncomfortable with a low-level producer paying them a little too much attention.

Looking back, Oliver knows he could’ve done more -- _should’ve_ done more. His attempts to shield actresses in the moment addressed the symptoms, not the disease.

One of Oliver’s most important goals for himself is to be the kind of man who uses his burgeoning principles, his power, to call out and obstruct the abusive parts of Hollywood.

“So, anyway,” Barry continues, pulling Oliver from his thoughts, “I suggested you might be willing to step in.”

Oliver freezes. “You-- _What_?”

 

& & &

 

By the time Oliver is off the phone with Barry, Thea and Felicity have cleared the table and are chatting as Felicity rinses the dishes and Thea loads the dishwasher. If Oliver were less distracted by the conversation he’d just had with Barry, he’d probably take a few moments to take in the unexpected scene.

The kitchen is, after all, his favorite part of his home, and his two favorite women are right there, laughing and talking. But it barely registers.

Felicity notices him first, turning to face him with a curious look. “How’s Barry?”

“Uh, good. He’s good.”

At that, Thea turns around, leaning back against the countertop as she wipes her hands on a dish towel. “You’re being weird,” she tells him with her trademark bluntness.

Oliver huffs a laugh. “It was a weird conversation.” He frowns to himself. “Maybe more _unexpected_ than weird,” he muses. He and Barry are friends, but just barely -- the last thing he expected was for Barry to suggest him for the exact kind of project he’s been trying to attract with this PR effort.

“Oooh, interesting,” Felicity chirps. Keeping her gaze on him, she nudges Thea, who hands her the dish towel. It’s eerie, having the two of them standing side by side, as comfortable as if they’d known each other for years and years, with none of the awkwardness Oliver had agonized over earlier.

“Uh.” Oliver tries to organize his thoughts. “Barry called to let me know he’d had a conversation with the Yamashiros about their current project, and he’d suggested me for a part.”

Thea reacts first. “Ollie! That’s awesome!”

Felicity is more reserved, head tilted as she processes. “The Yamashiros. They did that movie last year, the one where a scary virus had wiped out most of civilization and it was all--” she waves a hand in the air-- “post-apocalyptic-y?”

Oliver grins at her word-bending description. “Yeah,” he confirms, omitting the fact that _Apha/Omega_ won the _Palm d’Or_. “They produce their own movies -- she writes and he directs."

Felicity looks impressed. “And they want to work with you? Oliver, that’s great!”

He can feel heat in his cheeks as he tries to correct their misunderstanding. “No, that’s not-- Barry just suggested me to them,” he explains, wanting desperately to lower their expectations so he can keep his own in check. “He just wanted to let me know in case anything comes of it. I doubt it will, though,” he adds.

Granted, he only has a second-hand overview of the Yamashiros project, but he can’t imagine many producers would think of _Oliver Queen_ to replace now-disgraced indie darling Billy Wintergreen -- especially for a low-budget film about complicated family dynamics, set largely in Japan, and starring Shado Fei. Honestly, even without detail, Oliver would jump at the opportunity to work with the Yamashiros based on the strength of their filmography; problem is, he can’t imagine them wanting to work with him due to his own body of work.

“Barry suggested you to them, though,” Thea points out, clearly puzzled by his muted reaction. “That’s really great.”

Oliver shrugs. He can’t bring himself to voice his doubts -- of _course_ the Yamashiros seemed receptive to Barry’s suggestion. Maybe they even feigned enthusiasm, but they’re trying to get him attached to their next project, so Oliver doesn’t trust that anything will come of this. Maybe a meeting, but an offer? Doubtful.

“You should call Lyla,” Felicity says, her enthusiasm almost painful considering Oliver’s current morass of self-doubt.

Shifting uncomfortably, Oliver manages only a half-hearted, “Yeah.”

Felicity studies him, her lips pursing. “Isn’t this what you want?” she asks, and it’s so very much like her to cut right to the heart of it.

Because this _is_ exactly the kind of opportunity he’s dying for; this kind of chance is what he was hoping for when he agreed to pretend to date Felicity. But it’s not _really_ an opportunity, no matter how excited his sister and fake-girlfriend are about it. And Oliver knows when the Yamashiros cast someone else, Thea and Felicity will be disappointed _for_ him, but he’ll be disappointed in himself.

“Yeah,” he answers belatedly. “I’ll call Lyla, maybe they’ll take a meeting with me.”

Felicity’s expression softens, and she steps closer, laying her hand on his arm. For such a mild touch, it’s immensely comforting. “They’d be fools to underestimate you,” she tells him, looking up at him with those kind eyes. “I know it’s scary to do something different. Or at least it feels scary to _me_ when I’m trying to change the way people see me. But I believe in you, Oliver.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out, so he simply nods.

She watches him for a long moment, and he can’t seem to break her gaze. His eyes water a bit, and when he blinks rapidly, her fingers squeeze his arm gently.

“Now,” Felicity says brightly, stepping back a bit to give him space to breathe, “I believe I was promised ice cream?”

Thea snickers from her spot at the counter. “My brother stocks your favorite flavor, which is one of several interesting facts I learned today--”

“Thea.”

“--so I’ll get the bowls.”

Felicity slides her fingertips down his arm as she steps away. Before she lets go completely, Oliver reaches out and tangles her hand with his, squeezing lightly until she turns back to him with bright, inquisitive eyes. “Thanks,” he says, his voice a little rougher than normal. He glances at his sister and adds, “I’ll have a scoop, but no chocolate sauce for me.”

“Heathen,” Thea snarks, lifting a judgmental eyebrows as she shakes the container of chocolate sauce for emphasis.

Felicity grins up at him. “I’m with your sister on this. Chocolate sauce is delicious on _anything_.”

And since commenting on _that_ statement can’t go anywhere good for his sanity, Oliver rolls his eyes. “Get started. I’m gonna call Lyla real quick.”

Felicity’s smile softens. “Good.” And then she releases his hand and moves over towards the refrigerator, where Thea is digging out the carton of mint chocolate chip.

Oliver lets himself enjoy watching them for a moment, then turns away to call Lyla.

 

END CHAPTER

 


End file.
